


^/ '^m^.H.^ 






<^. '' 









# 



^ v^- / 






» .0 <> 



'^.kH^^ .'^ 















'y 



'M 



7' ^'^^^ 



'. -^v- 

v-?^' 



^ 



W-' «v""^ 



'-^, 






<^ 



<f. 






MOORE'S Melodies 

AND 

AMERICAN POEMS. 

WITn A BIOGEAPIIA", 

A CRITICAL REVIEW OF LYRIC POETS, 

DR. R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, 



: OF TUB LIFK 



ILLUSTRATED 
By DANIEL MACLISE, of the Royal Academy, Londox, 



WILLIA]\I RICHES, ax Ameuican Artist. 




NEW YORK: 
INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 






the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of Ohi< 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, 

By niCIIES A MOOHE, 

1 the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of Obi( 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, 

By KICIIES & MOORE, 

1 the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of Ohio. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, 

By the I N T E U N a T I O N a L P U B L I S II I N O COMPANY 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



All Lovei\s of Poetrj and the Fine /tRjs, 
Ts Respectfully Inscribed 

EY 

'^HZ -llUBLISMEKS. 




LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 



<^ ,£w^ WORK desio;nccl to ilhistrato tlio conceptions of 

'4)^.'j the most melodious of modern poets, by the aid 

of tlie pen, the pencil, and the graver, would justly be 

considered incomplete without some record of the man. 

All cultivated minds have a natural eao-emess to sec the 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 

fountain from which springs the clear invigorating draught 
that refreshes and strengthens them. AVe possess the works, 
tliey exclaim, — let ns gaze on the creator of tliem, — let us 
see the features, hodily and mental, of the child of genius 
who has delighted and entranced us. We hasten, then, to 
gratify this just and amiable desii-e. 

The parents of our Poet were persons of humble circum- 
stances, carrying on business at Aungier-street, Dublin, in 
which place he was born on the 28th of May, 1779. His 
father was a most amiable man, and his mother a woman 
of a very endearing and intellectual chai'acter. Perceiving 
that their child had no common mind, they bestowed upon 
liim an excellent education, intending to bring him up to 
the profession of the bar. At a very early age he indulged 
the natural promptings of an imaginative nature, and pro- 
duced various scraps of childish poetry, — so early that he had 
quite forgotten at what period he commenced these feeble 
offerings to the muse. But at the age of fourteen, he first 
had the delight of seeing his lines in print. He had ad- 
dressed a sonnet to his schoolmaster, Mr. Samuel Whytc, 
and sent it to a Dublin magazine called the Anlhologia : it 
was inserted, and the heart of the young aspirant fluttered 
with anticipations of future fame. 

Mr. Whyte was a vain but good-hearted man, and enjoyed 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 

considerable reputation as a teacher of public reading and 
elocution. Richard Brinsley Sheridan had, some years pre- 
viously, been under his direction ; but the schoolmaster 
pronounced the boy, who afterward became the most brilliant 
wit and orator of his age, to be " an incorrigible dunce." 
Such is too often the judgment of the book-learned ; the 
mind of the child of genius will not receive that with which 
it can not sympathize, and the unobserving teacher condemns 
it as dull ; but place before it the kind of knowledge which 
accords with its gifts, and observe then with what alacrity it 
receives the enchanting draught. Mr. Whyte not only en- 
couraged the study of elocution among his pupils, but also a 
taste for dramatic performances. In this direction young 
Moore was his favorite pupil, and on one occasion when a 
performance was got up by the lads, he personated Patrick in 
" The Poor Soldier," and Harlequin in a pantomime, besides 
contributing an appropriate epilogue. 

We have said that young Moore was intended by his father 
for the bar, but his family were Catholics, and to members 
of the Roman Catholic Church the Dublin University was 
at that period closed, and thus the only recognized avenue 
to the learned professions was barred against their entrance. 
Although this restriction was swept away by the memorable 
act of 1793, which abolished the most offensive enactments 
against the Catholics, yet this unjust exclusion seems to have 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 

cherished in the mind of the Poet that patriotic ardour and 
political energy, ■ which, in early youth, were near placing 
him in a dangerous position. He was among the iirst of his 
faith who availed themselves of the new privilege of being 
educated at their national University, though they were still 
e.Kcluded from the attainment of college honours and emolu- 
ments. 

Having attracted some notice by his occasional versifica- 
tion, Moore determined to attempt a free translation of some 
of the songs and odes of Anacreon into English verse; and 
after accomplishing a portion of this task, he submitted the 
manuscript to Dr. Kearney, then one of the senior Fellows 
of the University, afterwards Bishop of Ossory, and requested 
his advice relative to laying it before the Board, in the hope 
of obtaining some honourable reward or distinction. That 
gentleman spoke very highly of the translation, and encour- 
aged him to persevere with it, but told him he did not see 
that the Board of the University could, by any public reward, 
give their sanction to verses of so convivial and free a char- 
acter. 

In his nineteenth year the young poet proceeded to London, 
for the two-fold purpose of keeping his terms in the Middle 
Temple, and publishing his translation of Anacreon, by sub- 
scription. The elegant and voluptuous productions of the 
Greek poet had the credit, we are told, of softening the mind 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 

of Polycrates into a spirit of benevolence toward his subjects. 
"Tbey are, indeed," says Moore, "all beauty, all enchant- 
ment. He steals us so insensibly along with him, that we 
sympathize even in his excesses." It is somewhat singular 
that Moore's first work should be dedicated to the Prince of 
Wales, against whom, in after years, he aimed so many of 
his brilliant, laughing satires. Two years later (in 1801) 
Mr. Moore published his juvenile efforts, under the title of 
" The Poems of the Late Thomas Little." These were 
pleasing amatory trifles, some of which, in years of maturity, 
he would willingly have forgotten. In his preface, Moore 
reminds us that they were " the productions of an age when 
the passions very often give a coloring too warm to the im- 
agination ; and this may palliate, if it can not excuse, that 
air of levity which pervades so many of them." 

In 1803, Mr. Moore had the good fortune to have the com- 
parative sinecure of the registrarship of Bermuda bestowed 
upon him; but slight as the duties were, they were not to 
his taste; so he appointed a deputy, and then proceeded on 
a tour through some parts of North America. This turned 
out very unfortunately; the deputy became a defaulter to 
a considerable extent, and the poet had to make up the 
deficiency. 

The title of Poet bespoke every-where a kind and distin- 
guishing welcome for its wearer; the captain of the packet 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 

in which he crossed Lake Ontario not only loaded him with 
civilities, but begged on parting to be allowed to decline 
pa^-ment for his passage. Progress is rapid in America; on 
his journey to the Falls of Niagara he met with a slight 
accident, which detained him some days at Buftalo, then a 
mere village, consisting of huts and wigwams; over half a 
century has rolled away since then, and the village has long 
since been a populous and splendid city. The first sensation 
of the poet on beholding the terrific fall of waters at Niagara 
was that of slight disappointment; but its wild grandeur 
soon entirely captivated his imagination, and on each suc- 
ceeding visit he seemed to behold new beauties. He tells us, 
"I should find it difficult to say on which occasion I felt 
most deeply afiected : wheu looking on the falls of Niagara, 
or when standing by moonlight among the ruins of the Col- 
iseum." The publication of two volumes of odes and epis- 
tles followed Moore's return to his native land. In the 
poems descriptive of American scenery, he delineates the wild 
and beautiful features of this vast continent, not only with 
the graces of imagination, but with a singularly graphic 
accuracy. 

In 1806 occurred the famous duel between our poet and 
the late Lord Jeffrey, which ultimately led to the friendship 
of the former with Lord Byron. In consequence of some 
dispute, the intended combatants met at Chalk Farm, but 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 

the duel was prevented by the interfereiiee of the magistracy, 
and it was stated that upon examining the weapons, they 
were found to be loaded with powder only. Byron thus 
playfully alluded to this rumor in that bitter satire, English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers: — 

"Can none remember that eventful day, 
That ever-glorious, almost fatal fray. 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye. 
And Bow street myrmidons stood laughing by." 

This report, which was doubtless without foundation, was 
denied by Mr. Moore in the public papers, and the indignant 
poet further demanded a retraction of tlie satire on the part 
of Lord Byron ; but this demand, instead of leading to an- 
otlier hostile meeting, terminated in the close friendship of 
these two gifted men. 

Moore's next effusions appeared in 1808, without the name 
of their author. They consisted of two serious political satires, 
one entiled Corruption, the other Intolerance, and the next 
year they were followed by a brief poem called The Sceptic. 
But these serious attempts in the juvenalian vein did not 
attract any very great deal of attention, none of them at the 
time attaining a second edition. Still they deserved a 
greater success than they met with, and will well repay the 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOOEE. 

labor of perusal: perhaps the chief cause of their want of 
popularity was that they abused "Whigs and Tories with 
cousiderable impartiality. 

Abaudoiiiug the serious veiu, Moore uext produced his 
sparkling collection of light political satires entitled The 
Two-jpenny Post-bog. Brilliant and pointed as were these 
elegant lampoons, their effect was qualified by playful light- 
ness, and even by a tone of good humour which entered into 
the composition of them. Every one laughed, and even the 
objects of them joined in the mirthful chorus, though there 
might have been a little hollowness in their merriment. 
Moore commenced in 1807, and continued until as late as 
1834, the publication of his famous Irish Melodies, — poems 
which are not only wedded to music, but are in themselves 
music. They were suggested by a collection of the old 
national airs made b}' Mr. Bunting, which the poet justly 
thought would be rescued from comparative oblivion by 
being associated with modern and patriotic songs. Though 
never regularly instructed in music, Moore could play most 
of these fine old airs upon the piano-forte with tolerable 
facility. While at the Dublin University, he had become 
acquainted with the unfortunate patriot Robert Emmett. 
The young poet greatly admired the political enthusiast, 
who would frequently sit and listen to his performance of 
these old tunes; and on one occasion, when he had just 



LIFE OF THOMAI 



finished that spirited air called the " Red Fox," to which he 
afterwards wrote the touchiug lines beginning, — 

" Let Erin remember the days of old," 

Emmett started up as from a dream and exclaimed: " O, 
that I were at the head of twenty thousand men, marching 
to that air." 

It has been said that melody is inseparable from the name 
of Moore; the genius of his country seems to breathe from 
some of these national poems; others are sacred to love and 
friendship ; while in the rest the poet's muse revels in a kind 
of intellectual intoxication of both soul and sense. The 
mode also in which he has alluded to many of the wild 
superstitions of his native land, whose beautiful scenery and 
imaginative peasantry have made it the very home of the 
fairies, is both elegant and interesting. But the great cliarm 
of these melodies consists in their sweet tenderness, and the 
soft strains of love, and elegant epicurism which pervades 
them. It is this that makes them so universally popular, 
and has caused them to be translated into the Latin, Italian, 
French, Russian, and Polish languages. Some share of this 
world-wide admiration is to be attributed to the exquisite 
airs to which the melodies are written : indeed, such a love 
of song dwells in the sons and daughters of the "Green 
Isle," and so adapted is their speech for musical expression, 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOOEE. 



that some fugitive genius has asserted that Irish was the 
language spoken by Adam and Eve in Paradise. 

In the intervals of other labors, Moore continued the Irish 
Melodies, wrote the Sacred Songs, and now and then fur- 
nished a lively article to the Edinburgh Reoiew. 

Our poet's reputation was so firmly established, that 
Messrs. Longman agreed to give him the Targe sum of tliree 
thousand guineas for a poem upon an Eastern story. Moore 
retired to the picturesque banks of the river Dove, in Der- 
byshire, went through a course of oriental reading, and in 
three years produced his exquisite poem of Lalla Rookh. It 
was published in 1817; its success was triumphant, and at 
once dissipated from the mind of its author the doubts which, 
during the long anxious period of labor, would occasionally 
haunt him, respecting its reception by the public. It was 
the first product of a new school of poetry, perfectly oriental 
in character; the warm rays of an Eastern sun seem to 
radiate from every page : the judgment of the reading 
world was taken captive, and bound in chains of flowers. 
While in the glow of triumph, resulting from a success so 
beyond the expectation of the author, Mr. Rogers, a fellow- 
poet, offered Moore a seat in his carriage, in which he was 
then about to proceed on a visit to the French capital. A 
trip of so interesting a character, and in such congenial so- 
ciet\% was not to be refused ; the two poets started together, 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 

and, oil their return, Moore pablishcd his Fiulfje Famihj in 
Paris; the satirical trifles in which were so much to the taste 
of the public, that, in the race of successive editions, Miss 
Biddy Fudge was for some time not behind Lalia Rookh. 

In 1819 Moore again visited Paris in company with Lord 
John Russell, a nobleman with whom he ever maintained the 
closest ties of friendship ; after remaining there for a week 
or two, they proceeded to the Simplon, going from thence to 
Milan, where they parted, the politician proceeding to Genoa, 
and the poet to visit Lord Byron at Venice. Moore also 
spent some time at Rome, where he carried on a delightful 
intercourse with those high priests of the arts — Canova, 
Chantrey, Lawrence, Jackson, Turner, and Eastlake. This 
delightful trip was followed by the appearance of a volume 
entitled Rhymes on the Road, a liglit and pleasing record in 
verse of his travels, in which he expressed the various im- 
pressions made upon him by the exquisite productions of art 
and nature that every-where met his dazzled and enraptured 
view. 

Moore then proceeded to Paris, and remained there until 
1822. lie produced, during his stay in that gay city, his 
sweet and melodious poem. The Loves of the Angels, which 
seems to have been penned during a long dream of poetic 
love and sensuous raptures; and The Fables of the Holy Alli- 
ance, a collection of political satires, some of which possess 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 

not only a bold, but an enduring character. Probably he 
felt that the apparent trifler could tell home truths with im- 
punity, for his laughing muse has given birth to utterances 
which might have drawn down dangerous consequences 
upon the head of a more serious and sterner speaker. On 
his return to England he took up his residence at Sloperton 
Cottage, in the immediate vicinity of the beautiful demesne 
of Bowood, the seat of his distinguished and ever constant 
friend, the Marquis of Lansdowne. Here, surrounded by 
scenery in which a poet would have chosen to dwell, visited 
by literary friends, and indeed enjoying an intercourse with 
all that was exalted in intellect, rank, or beauty, did he pass 
the remainder of his life. Here it was that he perfectly re- 
alized Lord Byron's generous eulogy, that he was " the poet 
of all circles, and the idol of his own." 

In the full maturity of intellect, Moore turned his attention 
to prose-writing, and in 1825 he penned a biography of 
the brilliant but thoughtless Sheridan ; live years later, his 
well-known Life of Byron emerged from the press; it is a 
perfect picture of the literary and domestic character of that 
great creature of impulse and passion, — a daguerreotype of 
the man, though painted with words, not sunbeams. In 
1831, he produced the Memoirs of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, 
that ill-fated patriot who terminated a life of enthusiasm by 
a melancholy death in prison. Besides these biographical 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 

eftbrts, Moore produced in 1827 Lis gorgeous prose romance 
illustrative of Egyptian life, entitled The Epicurean. This 
delightful book, of which the language, though not in verse, 
often rises to poetry, is in some respects his most elevated 
work. 

The later years of the poet's life were passed in compar- 
ative indolence: he occasionally contributed to the daily 
press some little sparkling satirical verse on matters of pass- 
ing interest; but age had chilled the warm, brilliant spirit 
which animated him in years past; his intellectual career 
was over, and his existence merely phj'sical — the seared and 
yellow leaf of life trembled upon its parent stem — a brief 
space and it had fallen. The last of that brilliant phalanx 
of poets, who rushed into the arena of fame in the begin- 
ning of the present century, died at Sloperton Cottage, on 
the 25th of February, 1852. Uis remains were interred in 
a vault on the north side of the church-yard of Bromham, 
but his fame is preserved in the aflectionate remembrance 
and admiration of all who speak the English language. 

No mean evidence of the universality and earnestness of 
the admiration elicited by the sparkling genius of our poet 
is to be found in the fact, that a committee of noblemen 
and others met at the house of Lord Lansdowne for the 
purpose of raising a subscription for the erection of a monu- 
ment to the memory of the departed bard, in his native city 



LIFE OF THOMAS MOORE. 

of Dublin. This is as it should be; when nobility bows 
the knee to genius, it shares the glory of the laurel it confers. 
Elegant trifler as Moore sometimes was — a modern Ana- 
creon, tinged with the burning glow of patriotism, and 
mingling lays of love and liberty with sparkling satires, 
whose seeming lightness covered their real poignancy, still 
he possessed the divine secret of poesy, the power of thrill- 
ing and captivating the heart of the nation. The darling 
of drawing-rooms, his melodies were carolled forth by the 
lips of fashionable beauties in the luxurious saloons of 
nobles, but they were also sung by the horaely-clad peasant 
in the green valleys of Ireland, and the mountains of his 
fatherland echoed back the touching strains. As a poet of 
the senses, he was unrivalled; there is a glorious beauty in 
his works, a profusion of elegant and voluptuous similes, an 
intoxicating mingling of rainbows, stars, and flowers. His 
genius wins our aftectionate admiration. 



Note. — Dr. Mackenzie's Critical Review of Lyric Poets begins on page 47] 



PREFACE. 



fN earnest wish having been expressed by my Pub- 
lishers that this new Edition of the Irish Melodies 
should be accompanied by a few prefatory words, I have 
readily yielded to their request ; though so frequently have 
1 been called to this very welcome task, that all I can say 
upon such a theme, without degenerating into mere need- 
less egotism, must have been long since exhausted. 

On the poetical part of this work, it is not for me to 
give an opinion. Whatever may be its merits, to the 
music they are almost solely owing. It was, indeed, my 
strong desire to convey in words some of those feelings and 
fancies which music seemed to me to utter that first led me 
to attempt poetry. Thus song was the inspiring medium 
through which I became initiated into verse. Whatever 
merit there may be in interpreting the voice that spoke in 
my country's music, lending it a vent in verse, and bring- 



PREFACE. 

ing home to other hearts besides my own the various feel- 
ings, sad, gay, or impassioned, with which it teems, to such 
merit I may, perhaps, proudly pretend. But the whole 
source and soul of the Irish Melodies lies in their match- 
less music. As I have already said in song, I was only as 
the wind to the sleeping harp, and " all the wild sweetness 
I waked was its own." 

I shall only add, that I deem it most fortunate for this 
new Edition that the rich, imaginative powers of Mr. Maclise 
have been employed in its adornment; and that, to complete 
its national character, an Irish pencil has lent its aid to an 
Irish pen in rendering due honour and homage to our 
country's ancient harp. 

THOMAS MOORE. 




, Other arms may press thee, 
Dearer friends caress thee, 
All the joys that bless thee, 
'j. Sweeter fur may be ; 
^ Lut \\ hen friends are nearest, 
, ^ And when joys are dearest, \-c^)| 
^ V Oh ' then remember mo ! 

'^^\/ When at eve, thou revest 
^W-, r>\ the star thou lovest. 



Oh ' then remember me. 
/ 1 iunk when home returning, 
1 >i ight we've seen it burning, 
f^ Oh ' thus remember me. 
'It as summer closes, 
hen thine eye reposes 
1 its ling'ring roses, ^ 
( hi(_e so lov'd by thee, 
hiuk of her who wove thei 
il( 1 A\ho made thee love them,^| 
Oh ' then remember me 




3.vk'^.^'^ 



^-j^Hk. ^^, 








^tVAtVAvtt thee ? yes, wliile there's life in this heart, 
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art ; 
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers, 
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. 

AVert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious and free, 
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea, 
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow. 
But oh ! could I love thee more deeply than now ? 



No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, 
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons — 
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest. 
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast. 







Bl(Mid like the rainbow that hangs m thy skies ! 
Shining through sorrow's stream, 
Saddening through pleasure's beam, 
Thy suns with doubtful gleam, ""-^> 

\--y^ Weep while they rise. 



t^^ 



^' 




^Erm, thy silent tear never shall ( 

^Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase; 

Till, like the rainbow's light, 

Thy various tints unite. 

And form in heaven's sight 
One arch of peace ' 






©ft I breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade 
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid : 
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. 

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps. 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he 
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, 
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. 




itihO' tlie last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, 

Yet -wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ; 

In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, 

And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. 




To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore. 
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, 
I will lly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind 
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. 

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes, 
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ; 
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear 
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair. 







ili;,ryTho' lost to Mononia and cold in the giavf 
%^ He returns to Kmkora no more * 
y/ ' That star of the field, which so often hath 
/y) Its beam on the battle, is set, 

i /Kx^But enough of its glory remains on each 
h ^^^^ To light us to victory yet j^ 

"^ 36 




a 




Forget not our wounded companion'^, wlio stood' 
In the day of distress by our side , 
(/I) ( ■ >^ Whilethemossof the valley grew red with then blood, 

u] I I /^\ ( They fctirr'd not, but conquer'd and died 

/( ' '*- \ That sun which now blesses our arms with his light. 

Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain, — 
Oh ' let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night 
To find that they fell there in vain. 





£\\\ not yet, 'tis just the hour, 
When pleasure, lil^e the midnight flowc: 
That scorns the eye of vulgar light. 
Begins to bloom for sons of night. 

And maids who love the moon. 
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade 
That beauty and the moon w(,'re made ; 
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing 
Set the tides and goblets flowing. 

Oh! stay,— Oh! stay,— 
vv Joy so seldom weaves a chain 

Like this to-night, that oh, 'tis pain 

To break its links so soon. 




Tliough icy cold liy day it ran, 
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began 

To burn wlien night was near. 
And thus, should woman's heart and looks 
At noon be cold as wintei- brooks, 
Nor kindle till the night returning, 
Brings their genial hour for burning. 

Oh! stay,— Oh! stay,— 
When did morning ever break. 
And find such beaming eyes awal 

As those that sparkle here? 






No: — life is a waste of wearisome hours, 

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; 
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, 

Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. 
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile — 

May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here. 
Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile, 

And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear. 

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows f 

If it were not with friendshij) and love intertwin'd ; 
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, 

When tliese blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind 
But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest, 

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd; 
And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest. 

Is happy indeed if 'twas never decoiv'd. 
But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth 

Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine, — 
That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth. 

And the moonlight of friendship console our decline. 






^^ J:%^^^^ki^ 







IX^^^X 




'^^^^^^"^ 



^^t 



^hc mcetint) ot the uuitcvo. 



(iiih(t( is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;' 
Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
'Twas 7iot her soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still. 

'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near, 
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, 
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve. 
When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 




"^^ 




M 



-/ 



%^ a beam ^ix the tucc i)t the \u\tK$ way ototv. 



^,Si a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow 
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, 
'^So the cheek may be ting'd with a warm sunny smile, 
. Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. 

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade ahke o'er our joys and our woes, 
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring : 
For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting— 



Oh ! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, 
Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray ; 
The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, 
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again. 



§k\x mA uxt xcm the ^tm ^he xvoxt^ 

<M\tn and rare were the gems she wore, 
And a bright gold ring on lier wand she bore ; 
But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 
Her sparkhng gems, or snow-white wand. 

"Lady! dost thou not fear to stray, 

"So lone and lovely through this bleak way? 

"Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, 

"As not to be temj^ted by Avoman or gold?" 

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm, 
"No son of Erin will offer me harm: — ■ 
"For though they love woman and golden store, 
"Sir Knight !• they love honour and virtue more ! ' 



..^Ok. 




goir oft lui& the gcushcc rvici 

pP^OlW oft has the Benshee cried, 
How oft has death untied 
Bright links that Glory wove, 
Sweet bonds entwin'd by Love ! 

Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth; 

Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth; 
Long may the fair and brave 
Sigh o'er the hero's grave. 

We're fall'n upon gloomy daysP" 
Star after star decays. 
Every bright name, that shed 
Light o'er the land, is fled. 
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth 
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth ; 
But brightly flows the tear. 
Wept o'er a hero's bier. 



If'^^ 






Quench'd are our beacon lights — 
Thou, of the Hundred Fights!" 
Thou, on whose burning tongue 
Truth, peace, and freedom hung 
Both mute, — but long as valour shineth 
Or mercy's soul at war repineth ^ 
So long shall Erin's pride 
jTell how they liv'd and died 



§(oiv Anxx to wu t\\t Itour. 



^t(JW dear to me the hour when daylight dies. 

And sunbeams melt along the silent 
For then sweet dreams of other days arise, 

And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee. 

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays 

Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning west, 

I long to tread that golden path of rays. 

And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest. 






<\v licit lie, wlio adores thee, lias left but the name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh ! say wilt thou weej>, when they darken the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resign'd? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, 

Thy tears shall effiice their decree; 
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 

I have been but too faithful to thee. 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love ; 

Every thought of my reason was thine; 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine. 
Oil ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall 

The days of thy glory to see; 
But the next dearest blessing that heaven can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 



(I 



^^ 



2S5 




Haply when from those eyes 

Far, far away I roam, 
Should calmer thoughts arise 

. Tow'rds you and home ; 
Fancy may trace some line, 

AVorthy those eyes to meet, 
Thoughts that not burn, but shine, 

Pure, calm, and sweet. 

And as, o'er ocean far, 

Seamen their records keep. 
Led by some hidden star 

Through the cold deep; 
So may the words I write 

Tell thro' what storms I stray — 
You still the unseen light, 

Guiding my way. 





j;) 







■• -..-^r^l'^i 






^v ^^M. 



^t majj roam thvoutjlt thi^ ^t^xXk 

'^t may roam thro' tliis world, like a child at a feast, ^H 

Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; fg 
And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, 

We may order our wings and be off to the west ; 
But if hearts that feci, and eyes that smile, 

Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies, 
We never need leave our own green isle. 

For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, 

Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, 
^Oh ' 1 emeurber the smile that adorns her at home. 






ff'-fe;*^ By a dragon of prudery placed within call ; 

.^C^^ Cut vo oft this unamiable dragon has slept, 



That the garden 's but carelessly watch'd after all. 





^Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fence, 
Which round the flowers of Erin dwells ; 
Which warns the touch, while winning tlie sense, , 

Kor charms us least when it most repels. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd 

Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, n^ 
^ Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home ^A^^ 

In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail, "- 
On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, 

Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, 

But just pilots her off, and then bid^ her good-byel 



/f? 



v<iky 



)" 



-I 



m 



< '^\ 



A 




SA. Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, 
" Through billows of woe, and beams of joy. 

The same as he look'd when he left the shore. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd, 

Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, 
Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home. \^ 





The white snow lay 

On the narrow path-way, 
When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor ; 

And many a deep print 

On the white snow's tint 
Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door. 

The next sun's ray 

Soon melted away 
Every trace on the path where the false Lord came : 

But there's a light above, 

Which alone can remove 
That stam upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame. 






§t\kvt pc, if all i\\m tmlmm^ 

^fUCVf me, if all those endearing young charms, 

"Which I gaze on so fondly to-day. 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my ai'ms, 

Like fairy-gifts fading away. 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will. 
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still. 



r — ^"^^^^^^^ , - 





^ft €rin tcmcmkt Wu thxp of M. 



Witt Erin remember the days of old, 

Ere her faithless sons betray'd her; 
When Malachi wore the collar of gold,'° 

Which he won from her proud invader, 
When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd, 

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger; — '" 
Ere the emerald gem of the western world 

Was set in the crown of a stranger. 



f<^: 



On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays, 

When the clear cold eve's declining. 
He sees the round towers of other days 

In the wave beneath him shining ; 
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime ; 

Catch a glimpse of the days that are over ; 
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time 

For the long-faded glories they cover. ' ' 





^\u f o«0 0f |ia«ttuala. 




j^ttfitt, oh Moyle, be tlie roar of thy water, 

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, 

murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter 

Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. 
When shall the swan, her death-note singing. 

Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd? 
Wlien will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, 

Call my spirit from this stormy world? 

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping. 
Fate bids me languish long ages away ; 

Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping. 
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. ^ 

"WHien will that day-star, mildly springing. 
Warm our isle with peace and love? 

.When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, yi, 

/.' Call mv spirit to the fields above? . ' / 




CJOttl^t send round tho wine, and leave points of belief 

To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools ; 
This moment's a flower too fair and brief, 

To be witlier'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools. 
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, 

But, while they arc fiU'd from the same bright bowl, 
Tho fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue. 

Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. 



Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side 

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? 
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, 

If he kneel not before the same altar with me? 
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, 

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? 
No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try 

Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this! 




P\i 



V\ 



^^o 




^VlhlXtiXt was the warning that Liberty spoke, 
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke 

Into hie and revenge from the conqueror's chain. 
Oh, Liberty! let not this spirit have rest, 
TiU it move, hke a breeze, o'er the waves of the west — 
Give the hght of your look to each sorrowing spot, 
Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot 

While you add to your garland the Olive of Sjsain ! 

If the fame of our fathers, bequeatli'd with their rights. 
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights. 

If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, 
Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same ! 
And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a name, 
^Vlro would ask for a nobler, a holier death. 
Than to tum his last sigh into victory's breath. 

For the Shamiock of Eiin and Olive of Spam' 



^^^ 





1 



^ 



Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign' J 
C)Tlie green lulls of their youth, among strangers to find 
That repose wliii'h, at home, they had sigh'd for m vain. 
Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light, 
' May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright. 
And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws, 
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause 
Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain! 

God prosper the cause!— oh, it cannot but thrive, 
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive. 

Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain; 
Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die ! 
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie ; 
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, 
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave 

Beneath Shamiocks of Erin and Olives of Spain! 



Kv^M 







^» 



'\^^' 









M\x, oil €viw. 

^iHl^ the bright lamp, that shone m Kildare's holy fane. 

And burn'd thro' long ages of daiknes'i and storm, 
>Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain, 
Whose spirit outlives them, unfadmg and warmT 
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' tlio tears ^\ \ 

Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears. ^'' ^^^ 

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, 

Thy sun is but rising, when others are set ; | 

And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung 
^^1^ ^he full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. 




V. 



. .:>.v^2^il^^'^ 









m— ^^k^.—^^^. 



-T--^^ ^ (j}lV I blame not the bard, it he tly to the bower=?,'' 

y Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame , 

He was born for much more, and in happier hours 

His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. 

The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, 

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;" 
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, 
\.^^3:£l _ Might liave pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart. .-^ 






-^^But alas for his country ' — her pride is gone ])v, 
,^^, And that spirit is broken, which never would bend; 
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, 
''^^ e*- -^°^" '^'^^ treason to love her, and death to defend. 
^Vx^'^ Unpriz'd are her sons, till they 've learned to betray ; 
i^M Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires ; 

And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way, 
Llust be caught from the pile, where their country expires. 



Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream. 

He should try to forget, what he never can heal : | 

Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam 

Thro' the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel ! 
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down 

Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd ; 
^X^ While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown. 

Like the wreath of ITarmodius, should cover his sword." 

But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away, 
'"5' Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs; 
Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay, 

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. 
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; 

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, _^ 

Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, ^ '' 

Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep ! 



'^. 







ittktagia \^ 



gvittfe to iiPi,^\ho 1 

Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, 
The girl, who gave to song 

What gold could never buy. 
Oh! woman's heart was made 

For minstrel lumds alone : 
By other fingers play'd," 

It yields not half the tone. 
Then here's to her, who long 

Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, 
The girl, who gave to song 

What gold could never huy. 









rv^,>'^%^- 




^r-U^ '^^ -^HA' ^^ ^'^'^ Beaut) s door of glasb, 

When Wealth and Wit once stood 



Am 





5?=^ 




With golden key Wealth thought 

To pass— but 'twould not do : 
While Wit a diamond brought, 

Which cut his bright way through. 
So here's to her, who long 

Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, 
The girl, who gave to song 

What gold could never buy. 

The love that seeks a home 

Where wealth or grandeur shines. 
Is like the gloomy gnome, 

That dwells in dark gold mines. 
But oh! the poet's love 

Can boast a brighter sphere; 
Its native home's above, 

Tho' woman keeps it here. 
Then drink to her, who long 

Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, 
The girl, who gave to song 

What gold could never buy. 




l^vCX"-^* 




^W\\t 0n^itt0 on tin? §\mx'$ litjlit 

'^tlhilC gazing on the moon's light, 

A moment from her smile I turn'd, 
To look at orbs, that, more bright, 
In lone and distant glory burn'd. 
But too far 
Each proud star, 
For me to feel its warming flame ; 
Much more dear 
That mild sphere, 
Which near our planet smiling came;" 
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own ; 

While brighter eyes unlieeded play, 
I'll love those moonlight looks alone. 
That bless my home and guide my way 







'^ "W tt^tt daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, 
And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, 
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow. 

The last time she e'er was to press it alone. 
For the youth whom she treasured her heart and her soul in. 
Had promised to link the last tie before noon; 
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen 
iden herself will steal after it soon. 

Vs she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses, 
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, 
)' \. butterfly," fresh from the night-flower's kisses. 
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. 
Enrag'd with the insect for hiding her graces, 

She brush'd him — ^he fell, alas; never to rise: 
"Ah ! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces, 
/-•"^ "For which the soul's innocence too often dies." ^^ 



OJ 




;^/^., 



Willie 'she stole thro the garden Y,ht_ie hearts 



--. t. ease was growing, 

1 ^'^V Shecull'd 



some, and kiss'd off its night fallen dew , 
And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing, ,^ 

That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too 
But while o'er the roses too caielessly leaning. 

Her zone flew in two, and the hearts-ease was lost 
Ah ' this means," said the giil (and she sigh'd at its meaning), Vv A 

'1 ^ That love is scarce worth the repose it will cu^t ' ' j<i (^j 

f 






W'-z^ 




a|ii()lU clos'd around the conqueror's way, 

And lightnings show'd the distant hill, 
Where those who lost that dreadful day, 

Stood few and faint, but fearless still. 
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal. 

For ever dinini'd for ever crost — 
Oh ! who shall say what heroes feel, 

^Vllen all but life and honour's lost? 



^j 



4 



The last sad hour of freedom's dream. 

And valor's task, moved slowly by. 
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam 

Should rise and give them light to die. 
There's yet a world, where souls are free. 

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; — 
If death that world's bright opening be, 

Oh! who would live a slave in this? 



^£^^^^ 



^^^^, 



#lu Imd wt ^omt bright little g,sk of 
mix own, 

C^h I had we some bright little isle of our own, 
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, 
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, 
And the bee banquets on through a wliole year of flowers ; 

Where the sun loves to pause 
With so fond a delay. 

That the night only draws 
A thin veil o'er the day; 
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live. 
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give. 

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, 
We should love, as they lov'd in the first golden time ; 
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air. 
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there. 

With affection as free 

From decline as the bowers, 

And, with hope, like the bee, 
Living always on flowers, 
Our life should resemble a long day of light, 
And our death come on, holy and calm as the night. 



l^S^jj Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wroiig'd '^ 
and scorn 'd, 
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows'' 
^' adorn'd ; v,^ ■ 

<fO^^ Sho woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in ''"^"S^ 

caves, 
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas ! were 

slaves ; 
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be, 
Than wed what I lov'd not, or turn one thought from 
thee. 

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are J 

frail— t 

Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd 

less pale. 
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering 

chains. 
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile 

stain.s — - 
Oh ! foul is the slander, — no chain could that soul 

subdue — 
Where shmeth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!" 











l(> ^ / V ''^\$ bebev'd that this Harp ^v hich I ^\ ake ^ oi T 
f < now for thee, VV^M \ 

^ AVas a Siren of old, who sung unJei the sea , j^ "i 

I h \nd who often, at eve, thro' the biightwateisro\ 1 ^ i^ 1^ 

IFpi/j i i Tomeet ontheg^eenshole,a}outhwhomshelo^ 1 yF^ 

/ iT » ''I'l Butshe loA 'dhimin ^am, for he lefther to wefji ^ -<, /(fl J 

1^ Irn^ /"^ And m tears all the night her gold tresses to steep // A 

I v-J |i Till heav nlook'd with pity on true lo\e so warm 

t And chang'd to this soft Harp the sea maiden's f 





Jl) Still her bosom rose fair— still her cheeks smil'd th^ 

same — 
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light 

frame ; 
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell, 
Was cbang'd to bright chords utt'ring melody's spell 

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known 
To mmgle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; 
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay 
To speak love when I 'm near thee, and grief when away. 



.^ 



^tt)^ on, weep on, your hour is past; 

Your dreams of pride are o'er; 
The fatal chain is round you cast, 

And you are men no more. 
In vain the hero's heart hatli bled ; 

The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vai 
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, 

It never lights again. 



Weep on — perhaps in after days, 

They '11 learn to love your name ; 
When many a deed may wake in praise 

That long hath slept in blame. 
And when they tread the ruin'd isle, 

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, 
They '11 wondering ask, how hands so vile 

Could conquer hearts so brave? 



ti 



"Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate 

' ' Your web of discord wove ; 
"And while your tyrants join'd in hate, 

"You never join'd in love. 
"But hearts fell off, that ought to twine, 

"And man profan'd what God had given 
"Till some were heard to curse the shrine, 

"Where others knelt to heaven!" 



^^ 






fel 



,.^rjf^ 






^r=^^ 




1i^m\ 




f^X Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found tliee, 

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long/" 
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, 

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and songi. 
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness 

Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; 
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, 

That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. 



Dear Harp of my Country ! farewell to thy numbers. 

This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ! j~, 
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers. 

Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine; , 
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, 
^ Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; 

I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, 
^ And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own 






;1 the days are gone, when Beauty bright 
My heart's chain wove; 
When my dream of hfe, from morn till night, 
Was love, still love. 
New hope may bloom, 
And days may come, 
Of milder, calmer beam. 
But. there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream: 
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life 
As love's young dream. 

Tho' the bard to purer fame may 

When wild youth's past; 
Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before, 
To smile at last; 
He'll never meet 
A joy so sweet, 
In all his noon of fame. 
As when first he sung to woman's ear 

His soul-felt flame. 
And, at every close, she blush 'd to heai- 
The one lov'd name. 






Mt f tinrt'^ Jajj 



dark are our sorrows, to-day we '11 forget them, 
And smile througli our tears, like a sunbeam in showers : 
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, 
More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours. 
But just when the chain 
Has ceas'd to pain. 
And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers, 
There comes a new link 
Our spirits to sink — 
Oh ! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, 

Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay ; 

But. though 'twere the last little spark in our souls, 

We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day. 



i i. 



Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal ! 

Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true; 
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, 

Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. 




"While cowards, who blight 
Your fame, your right, 
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, 
The standard of Green 
In front would be seen, — 
Oh, my life on your faith ! were you summon'd 
this minute. 
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away. 
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it, 
When rous'd by the foe, on her Prince's Day. 

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded 

In hearts, which have suffer'd too much to forget ; 
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded. 
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet. 
The gem may be broke 
By many a stroke, 
But nothing can cloud its native ray; 
Each fragment will cast 
A light to the last, — 
Erin, my country tho' broken thou art, 
lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay ; 
A spirit, which beams through each suffering part, 
And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day. 



And thu 
There' 






^fSiUtll liath a beaming eye, 

ut no one knows for whom it beameth 
Right and left its arrows fly 

But what they aim at no one Jreameth' 
"'Rweeter 'tis to gaze upon '^ 

A[y Nora's hd that seldom rises, ^V 
J w its looks, but every one, ^ 

'^Like unexpected light, surprises' 
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, 

bashful Nora Creina, 
Beauty lies -^ ^ 

many eyes, 
vours, mv Nora Creina ^ 




^ Lesbia wears a robe of gold, 

But all so close the nymph hath lac VI it, 7^~~^^ 
Not a charm of beauty's mould \f ^ - 

Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it. f?^ 
Oh ! my Nora's gown for me, M 

That floats as wild as mountain breezes, 
Leaving every beauty free 

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. 
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear, 
My simple, graceful Nora Creina, 
Nature's dress 
Is loveliness — 
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina. 

Lesbia hath a wit refin'd. 

But, when its points are gleaming 
Who can tell if they're design'd 

To dazzle merely, or to wound us? 
Pillowed on my Nora's heart, 

In safer slumber Love reposes — 
Bed of peace! whose roughest part 

Is but the crumpling of the roses. 





^^^ 



\^ 



r 



m 



§S that p»k», K\\m gtoomij show 

a|jj i-liat Lake, whose gloomy shore 
Sky-lark never warbles o'er," 
Where the cliff hangs high and steep, 
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. 
"Here, at least," he calmly said, 
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed." 
Ah! the good Saint little knew 
What that wily sex can do. 






'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew, — 
Eyes of most unholy blue! 
She had lov'd him well and long, 
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong. 
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly. 
Still he heard her light foot nigh; 
East or west, where'er he turn'd. 
Still her eyes before him burn'd. 

On the bold cliffs bosom cast, 
Tranquil now he sleeps at last; 
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er 
Woman's smile can haunt him there. 
But nor earth nor heaven is free 
From her power, if fond she be : 
Even now, while calm he sleeps, 
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. 



Fearless she had track'd his feet 
To this rocky, wild retreat; 
And when morning met his view, 
Her mild glances met it too. 
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts! 
Sternly from his bed he starts. 
And with rude, repulsive shock, 
Hurls her from the beetling rock. 








Glendalougli, thy gloomy wave 
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave ' 
Soon the saint (yet ah ' too late,) 
Felt her love, and mouin'd her fate 
When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!' 
Round the Lake light music stole; 
And her ghost was seen to glide, 
Smiling o'er the fatal tulc 



Ei\> 



^ky?- A 





ft i^ not tlt<? imv at tbiss m0mfttt ^bril 




^t is not the teur at this moment shed, 

When the cold turf had just been laid 
That can tell how belov'd was the friend that's 

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 
'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept, 

'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; 
'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, 

When all lighter griefs have faded. 



Thus his memory, like some holy light. 

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, 
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bri^ 

When we think how he liv'd but to love them 
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume 

Where buried saints are lying, 
our hearts shall borrow a sweet' ning bloom 

From the image he left there in dying! 






M '^^W tliy form in youtliful prime, 
Nor thought that pale decay 

WoulJ steal before the stepa of Time, 
And waste in bloom away, Mary ! 

Yet still thy features wore that light, 
Wliicli fleets not with the breath; 

And life ne'er look'd more truly bright 
Than in tliy smile of death, Mary 



As streams that run o er golden mines, 

Yet humbly, calmly glide, 
Nor seem to know tlic wealth that shines 

Within their gentle tide, Mary 
So veil'd beneath the simplest guise. 

Thy radiant genius shone. 
And that which charm'd all other eyes, 

Seem'd worthless in thine own, Mary! 






If souls could always dwell above, 

Tliou ne'er liadst left that sphere; 
Or could we keep the souls we love, 

We ne'^er had lost thee here, Mary 
Though many a gifted mind we meet; 

Though fairest forms we see, 
To live with them is far less sweet. 

Than to remember thee, Mary!" 



■J - ^ 

^<fV( iwxA th^ gavkf. 

Hl^flf we dwell, in holiest bowers, 
"Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; ^ 
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers'/-"' 
"To heaven in mingled odour ascend. 
"Do not disturb our calm, oh Love! 
"So like is thy form to the cherubs above, 
It„well might deceive such hearts as ours.""^^ 







Love stood near tlie Novice and listen'd, 

And Love is no novice in taking a hint; 
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd; 
His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. 
"Who would have thought," the urchin cries, 
"That Love could so well, so gravely disguise 
■'His wandering wings, and wounding eyes?" 

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping. 
Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise. 
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, 
Hr brightens the censer's flame with his sighs. 
Love is the Saint enshrin'd in thy breast. 
And angels themselves would admit such a guest, 
If he came to them cloth'd in piety's vest. 



i 



_a 



^OJ 



u^ 






^^- 1^ 



glVfttging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin"" 
On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd! — 

For ev'ry fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, 

A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. 

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling," 
When Ulad's'' three champions lay sleeping in gore — 

By the billows' of war, which so often, high swelling, 
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore — - 

We swear to revenge them! — no joy shall be tasted. 
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, 

Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted, 
Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head. 



Yes, monarch ! tho' sweet are our home recollections, 
Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall ; 

Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, 
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all ! 




mix^i tht^ §u ijs U ikt gUwml 



(&) frc.^i^hat the bee is to the floweret, 
When lie looks for honey-dew, 
Through the leaves that close embower it, 
That, my love, I '11 be to you. 

JlltC, — "What the bank, with verdure glowing. 
Is to waves that wander near, 
Whispering kisses, while they're going. 
That I'll be to you, my dear. 

^\\t, — But they say, the bee"s a rover 

AVho will fly, when sweets are gone; 
And, when once the kiss is over. 
Faithless brooks will wander on. 



'^t. — ISI^ay, if flowers will lose their looks. 
If sunnv banks will wear away, 
'Tis but right, that bees and brooks 

Should sip and kiss them, wh.ile they may. 




She sings the wild song of lier dear native plain = 
Every note which he lov'd awaking; — 

All! little they think who delight in her strains, 
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking. 



He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwin'd him; 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him. 

Oh I make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 
When they promise a glorious morrow; 

They'll shme o'er her sleep like a smile from the West, 
Fi-om her own loved island of sorrow. 




^DOD^S 





Ne ei hath a bpam 

Been lost in the stream 
That ever was shed from thy form or soul; 

Tiie spell of those eyes, 

The balm of thy sighs, 
Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl. 
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal 
One blissful dream of the heart from me; 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
The bowl but brightens ray love for thee. 

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower 

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine ; 
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, 
But bath'd the other with mantling wine. 
Soon did the buds 
That drank of the floods 
Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade; 
While those which the tide 
Of ruby had dy'd 
All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! 
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can -steal 
One blissful dream of the heart from me; 
Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
The bowl but brio;htens mv love for thee. 




^^ 



X' m 



1^>. ^ 



m^K 




§i i\u mill \m\x of §\^\\t 

^t the mid hour of niglit, when stars are weeping, I fly 

To the lone vale we lov'd, when life shone warm in thine eye ; 

And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of 

air. 
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me 
there, 
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky. 

Then I sing the wild song 't was once such pleasure to hear ! 

When our voices commingling breath'd, like one, on the ear ; 

And, as Eclio far off through the vale my sad orison 

rolls, 
I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom 
of Souls," 
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. 





\)\mmt$ and xcm^. 



md^ life is all cheqner'd with pleasures and woes, 

That chase one another like waves of the deep, — 
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows, 

our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. 
So closely our whims on our miseries tread, 

That the laugh is awak'd ere the tear can be dried ; 
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, 

The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. 
But pledge me the cup — if existence would cloy. 

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise. 
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, 

And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. 

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount. 
Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play 




^'-M 



■J 



Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, 

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.* 
Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted 

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine. 
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, 

And left their light urns all as empty as mine. 
But pledge me the goblet ; — while Idleness weaves 

These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see 
One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves 

From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me 



r^, 




■'^ 









Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Sliamrock! 
Chosen leaf 
^ Of Bard and Chief, ^n 



Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 



So firmly fond 

May last the bond, 
They wove that morn together, 

And ne'er may fall 

One drop of gall 
On Wit's celestial feather. 

May Love, as twine 

His flowers divine, 
Of thorny falsehood weed 'em ; 

May Valour ne'er 

His standard rear 
Against the cause of Freedom 
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock f 

Chosen leaf 

Of Bard and Chief, 
Old Erm's nati\( shuniOLkl ^ 





^\\t valley lay smiling before me, 

Where lately I left her behind ; 
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, 

That saddened the joy of my mind. 
I look'd for the lamp which, she told me. 

Should shine, when her Pilgrim return'd ; 
But, though darkness began to infold me. 

No lamp from the battlements burn'd ! 



I flew to her chamber — 'twas lonely. 

As if the lov'd tenant lay dead ; — 
Ah, would it were death, and death only ! 

But no, the young false one had fled. 
And there hung the lute that could soften 

My very worst pains into bliss ; 
While the hand, that had wak'd it so often, 

Now tlirobb'd to a proud rival's kiss. 





There was a time, falsest of women, 

When Breffni's good sword would have souglit 
That man, thro' a million of foemen, 

Who dar'd but to wrong thee in thought I 
While now — oh degenerate daughter 

Of Erin, how fall'n is thy fame ! 
And thro' ages of bondage and slaughter, 

Our country shall bleed for thy shame. 



Already, the curse is upon her. 

And strangers her valleys profane; 
They come to divide, to dishonour, 

And tyrants they long will remain. 
But onward ! — the green banner rearing, 

Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; 
On our side is Virtue and Erin, 

iwOn theirs is the Saxon and Guilt. 





""^'OU remember Ellen, oui hamlet's pnde,^' 
llow meekl}' she blessed her humble lot, 
When the stranger, William, had made her 
And love was the light of their lowly cot 
Together they toil'd through winds and rain; 

Till William, at length, in sadness said, 

"We must 3eek our fortune on otlier plains; 

Then, sighing, she left her ImwK ^1,,.] , 





Tlioy loam'd a long and a weary way, 

Xoi miKh was the maiden's Heart at ea&e, 
When now, at close of one stormy day, 

They see a proud castle among the trees. 
"To-night," said the youth, " we'll shelter there, 

"The wind blows cold, the hour is late 
So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air. 

And the Porter bow'd, as they pass'd the gate. 

"Now, welcome. Lady," exclaim'd the youth, — 

"This castle is thine, and these dark woods all !" 
She believ'd him crazed, but his words were truth. 

For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall ! 
And deaily the Loid ot Rosna loves 

What William the stianger woo'd and wed , 
Vnd the light of bliss, in these lordly grove , 

Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed 







^t^ltCtt thro' life unblest we rove, 
Losing all that made life dear, 
Should some notes we used to love, 
In days of boyhood, meet our ear. 
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain ! 
Wakening thoughts that long have slept; 
ndling former smiles again 
In faded eyes that long have wept. 

Like the gale, that sighs along 

Beds of oriental flowers, 
Is the grateful breath of song, 

That once was heard in happi^ 
Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on. 

Though the flowers have sunk in death ; 
So, when pleasure's dream is gone. 

Its memory lives in Music's breath. 





.. i^K^^d^^^' ''^' -.n^^; 



MlU Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, 

In the ranks of death you'll find hiia ; 
His father's sword he has girded on, 

And his wild harp slung behind him. — 
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, 

"Tho' all the world betrays thee, 
" 0)ie sword, at least, thy rights shall guard 

" One faithful harp shall praise thee!" 




T% 



^,^^H^ ilip Minstrel fell ' — but the foeman s chain ^^\ 
-^V^ ^'ould not bimg hi& pioud &oul under ^ 



= ^ 




w^ 



^-A 






*?i^ ^mt\ ta tlunfe, 

©ijj sweet to think, that, where'er wo rove, 

We are sure to find something bHssful and dear, 
And that, when we 're far from the Ups we lovo, 

We've but to make love to the lips we are near." 
Tlie heart, like a tendril, accustom 'd to cling, 

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone. 
But will lean to the nearest, and loveliest thing, 

It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. 
Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove. 

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear. 
And to know, when far from the lips we love, 

We've but to make love to the lips that are near. 






'Twcre a sliamc, when flowers around us rise, 

To niake light of the rest, if the rose is n't there; 
And the world 's so rich in rosjjlendent eyes, -< 

'T were a pity to limit one's love to a pair. n7 

Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, 

They are both of them bright, but they 're changeable too, 
And, wdierever a new beam of beauty can strike, 

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue. 
Then oh ! what pleasure, where 'er we rove. 

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, 
And to know, when far from the lips we love, 

We' ve but to make love to the lips we are near. 



jr 



j\ 



\i I 



^^^Oo<-.>-^^^^-^ 



ss^^^:^-:^^,^^^^ 




^&, 



r-^ \ 



V: ^ 



4>f 



nc 



^iutircUi — but ttltcucvcv tjou 
u'clcomc the hour. 

^JU'CU'CU I — but whenever you welcome the hour, 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, 
Tlien tliink of the friend who once welcom'd it too. 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brighten'd liis pathway of pain. 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw 
Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you. 



And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 
To the higliest top sparkle each heart and each cup. 
Where 'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright. 
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night ; 




RluiU join m }our i(.\(ls, your sports, and your wiles, 
And letum to lae, beaming all o'er with your smiles — 
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer 
Some kind voice had murmur'd, "I wish he was here!' 



Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of tlie past, which she cannot destroy ; 
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd ! 
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd — 
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will. 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 





g'll mouvu the Ii(»|rc^. 



^ 'd nt0UVtt the hopes that leave me, 

If thy smile had left me too ; 
I 'd -weep when friends deceive me, 

If thou wert, like them, untrue. 
But while I 'vc thee before me. 

With heart so warm and eyes so l^right 
No clouds can linger o'er me. 

That smile turns them all to liirht. 



'Tis not in fate to harm me, 

While fate leaves thy love to me; 
'Tis not in joy to charm me, 

Unless joy be shared with thee. 
One minute's dream about thee 

Were worth a long, an endless year 
^"^v C)f waking bliss without thee, 
'""*'" 7 My own love, my only dear! 




■„r_ 



,jy^^^(j^^- 



^^V(-^^H^ 



)<yW- 



mx 



And tho' the hope be gone, love, 

That long sparkled o'er our way, 
Oh! we shall journey on, love. 

More safely, without its ray. 
Far better lights shall win me 

Along the path I' ve yet to roam : — 
The mind that burns within me, 

And pure smiles from thee at home. 

Thus, when the lamp that lighted 

The traveller at first goes out, ' 
He feels awhile benighted. 

And looks around in fear and doubt. 
But soon, the prospect clearing, 

By cloudless starlight on he treads. 
And thinks no lamp so cheering 

As that light which Heaven sheds. 



^ ^ 





^y\ 



/A 






?ttC bumper at parting f — tho' man} 
Have circled tlie board since we met 

The fullest, the saddest of any 
Remains to be crown'd by us } et 

The sweetness that pleasure hath m it 
Is always so slow to come forth, 

That seldom, alas, till the minute 




But come, — may our life's liappy measure 
Be all of sucli moments made up; 

They 're born on the bosom of Pleasure, 
They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 



As onward we journey, how pleasant 

To pause and inhabit awhile 
Those few sunny spots, like the present, 

That 'mid the dull wilderness smile! 
But time, like a pitiless master, 

Cries " Onward !" and spurs the gay hours- 
Ah, never doth time travel faster, 

Than when his way lies among flowers. 
But come — may our life's happy measure 

Be all of such moments made up ; 
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, 

They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 






We saw how the sun look'd in sinking, 

The waters beneath him how bright; 
And now, let our farewell of drinking 

Resemble that farewell of light. 
You saw how he finish'd, by darting 

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim- 
So, fill up, let's shine at our parting. 

In full liquid glory, like him. 









Has love to that soul, so tender, 

Been like our Lagenlan mine,*^ 
Where sparkles of golden splendour 

All over the surface shine — 
But, if in pursuit we go deeper, 

Allur'd by the gleam that shone, 
Ah ! fixlse as the dream of the sleeper. 

Like Love, the bright ore is gone. 

Has Hope, like the bird in the story," 

That flitted from tree to tree 
With the talisman's glittering glory — 

Has Hope been that bird to thee ? 
On branch after branch alighting, 

The gem did she still disjjlay. 
And, when nearest and most inviting, 

Then waft the fair gem away ? 



If thus the young hours have fleeted. 

When sorrow itself look'd bright; 
If thus the fair hope hath cheated, 

That led thee along so light; 
If thus tlie cold world now wither 

Each feeling that once was dear: — 
Come child of misfortune, come hither, 

I '11 weep with thee, tear for tear. 



7X' 














m 




^.lk 


.-#.x 


m 




I' A 




'f 



Maiden, with me, ^-^'^ ^"^tu^V J 1 
>' 'iunshine, &toim and sno\\'5, t^i^n) "^^-^ ( 



^, 






^f^- 



^SSS^^:^] 




<ilTJUfll first I met thee, -warm and young, 

There shone such truth about thee, 
And on thy Hp such promise hung, 

I did not dare to doubt tliee. 
I saw thee change, yet still relied, 
Still clung with hope the fonder. 
And thought, tho' false to all beside. 
From me thou couldst not wander. 
But go, deceiver! go, 

The heart, whose hopes could make it 
Trust one so false, so low. 

Deserves that thou shouldst break it. 



When every tongue thy follies nam'd, 

I flei] the unwelcome story ; 
Or found, in ev'n the faults they blam'd, 

Some gleams of future glory. 



rnm^f 



I still was true, when nearer friends 
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee; 
The heart that now thy falsehood rends, 
Would then have Ijled to right thee. 
But go, deceiver ! go, — • 

Some day, perhaps, thou 'It waken 
From pleasure's dream, to know 
The grief of hearts forsaken. 



Even now, tlio' youth its bloom has shed. 

No lights of age adorn thee : 
The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled, 

And they wlio flatter scorn thee. 
Thy midnight cup is pledg'd to slaves, 

No genial ties en wreath it; 
The smiling there, like light on graves. 
Has rank cold hearts beneath it. 
Go — go — tlio' worlds were thine, 

I would not now surrender 
One taintless tear of mine 
For all thy guilty splendour! 



And days may come, thou false one ! yet 
When even those ties shall sever; 

When tliou wilt call, with vain regret. 
On her thou 'st lost fur ever ; 






r^^': 




'^^^^^^^, 



On her wlio, in thy fortune's fall, 

With smiles had still receiv'd thee, 
And gladly died to prove thee all 
Her fancy first believ'd thee. 
Go — go — 'tis vain to curse, 

'Tis weakness to Ujibraid thee; 
Hate cannot wish thee worse 

Than guilt and shame have made thee. 



'a 



We tread the land that bore us, 
Her green flag glitters o'er us, 

The friends we've tried 

Are by our side, 
And the foe we hate before us. 

Farewell, Erin,— farewell, all, 
Who live to weep our fall ! 



Wilt time I've lost in wooing, 
In watching and jjursuing 

The light, that lies . 

In woman's eyes, 
Has been my heart's undoing. 
Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, 
I scorn'd the lore she brought me, 

My only books 

Were woman's looks. 
And folly 's all they've taught me. 





Her smile when Beauty gmntcil 
liiing with gaze enchanted, 
y Like him the Sprite," 
y\^/' ^ Whom maids by night 

^Js/ (-'It meet in glen that's haunted 
Like him, too. Beauty won me, 
But while her eyes were on me, 
--==:x If once their ray 
Was turn d away, 
fli ' winds could not outrun me /''^ 
ffll . ^ J \ 









Sages can, they yay, 

Grasp the Hghtuing's pinions, 
And bring down its ray 

From the starr'd dominions: — 
So we, Sages, sit. 

And, 'mid bumpers briglit'ning, 
From the Heaven of Wit 

Draw down all its lightn' 



Would'st thou know what fi 

Made our souls inherit 
This ennobling thirst 

For wine's celestial spirit? 
It chanc'd upon that day, 

When, as bards inform us, 
Prometheus stole away 

The living fires that warm us 

The careless Youth, when up 

To Glory's fount aspiring. 
Took nor urn nor cup 

To hide the pilfer'd fire in. — 
But oh his joy, when, round 

The halls of Heaven spying, 
Am'ong the stars he found 

A bowl of Bacchus lyino-l 





f T>v 




me drojDs weie in that bowl, 

Remains of last nights pleasuie, 
With which the Bpaiks of Soul 

Mix'd their burning tieasuie 
Hence the goblet's showei 

Hath such spells to win us, 
Hence its mighty pow ei 

O'er that flame within us 
Fill the bumpei fan ' 

Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of Care 

Smooths away a wiinkle 



m^ 



am 





T ii. ' ^ III 
Ot mu--]( tall on the slocper's ear, y^\. ■ 

mber'5, 



^/l^^y ^0, not inoie welcome the fairy nunibe 




When lialt awaking from fearful slumber'^, '^^''irl' 1' 

He thinks the full quire of heaven is near, — JL | 1 

Than came that voice, when, all forsaken, 



This lieart long had sleeping lain, '^ // ^ ^ 

i Y _ ^ Nor tliouglit its cold pulse would ever waken 1\ -^- "'''>' 

1 "Ivt "^ ^- '^^ ^^^^ benign, blessed sounds again -^ 



(^P. 



..^^uf 



i^a^ 



S\vtet\OKeofcomfoit' t was like the steal iiij, 
Ot suinmei \Mncl thio ^ome\Mtathed'-licll 
Each secict wmdino eacli inino'-t teeliii 
mvj \'y Ot all my '>oul eclioed to its ^pell 
|\J r w is \\ luspei d balm — t u as sunshine spoken 
Isl I d li\e 3 ears of grief and pain 

""V To hx\e my long sleep of soriow bioken 
By such benign, blessed sounds again 




c;--. 



'^^^Vl U'ltOU(^h hiiinblc the banquet to wliich I invite thee, 
^^y^\ Thou 'It find there the best a poor bard can command 
Xo Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to- light thee, 
A -y And Love serve the feast with his own wilhng hand 







(!)^h' 



iVnd though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from the dwelHn,<. 
VJ~nfN Of him thou regardest her favouring ray, g?^ 

rh( )U w ilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling, ^*'®' 
/ Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way. 

'T is that freedom of mmd, which no vulgar dciminion 
Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves ; 

Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion, 
Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves. 

1 
'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat. 

And, with this, though of all other treasures bereaved, 
Tlie breeze of his garden to him is more sweet 

Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received. 

Then, come, — if a board so untempting hath power 
To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine ; 

And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower, --^ 
Who, smiling,will blend her bright welcome with mine. 



■pE; 



:fe r^^ 





J; j ^phcij hxm not mij §ml 




®Un( know not my heart, wlio belieA'e there can be 
One stain of this earth in its feehngs for thee; 
Who think, wliile I see thee in beauty's young hour 
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flow'r, 
I could liarm wliat I love, — as the sun's wanton ray 
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it awav. 



No— beaming with light as those young features are. 
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far: 
It IS not that cheek — 'tis the soul dawning clear 
Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear ; 
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair, 
^ Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there! 





\1 



WMU Histoiy's Muse the inrraoual was /let pi: 

Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, 
I'x'sidn Ik.t the Genius of Erin stood weeping, 

For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. 
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, 
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame. 
She saw History write, 
With a pencil of light 
Tliat illum'd the whole volume, her Wellington's name. 




" Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling 

With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies — 
" Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, 

" I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. 
" For, tho' Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot, 
? ' And unhallovv'd they sleep in the cross- ways of Fame ;— 
" But oh ! there is not 
" One dishonouring blot 

■ On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name. 

' Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, 
" The grandest, the purest, ev'n thoiL hast yet known ; 

■ Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, 
" Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. 

" At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood* 
' Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame, 
" And, bright o'er the flood 
" Of her tears and her blood, 
" Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name !" 




^r^ :=: 




^^^•^ 



o^ 




W'\^ gone, and for ever, tlie ]igl>t we saw breaking, 

Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead- 
"When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking, 

Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled. 
'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning 
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, 
The dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning. 
And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee. 



0j For high was thy liope, when tliose glories were darting 
Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world ; 
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, ($^: 

'^ \. At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd. 




dome, I'st lu tins Ih.m.iu, nn ,,\\ i, ^tn, k, n 1 i, 
Tho' tlielieul lia\eflpfl fiom thee, thy home is still heie, 
Heie still IS the smile, tlut no cloud can o'eicast. 
And a heart and a hand all tliy own to the last. 



1 






i4\ Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not tlie same ,„ _ 

U , . , , I, /> ^ 

Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?/", 

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, 

., V ,,T l)ut know tliat I love thee, whatever tliou art i \%. 



fm 



^; 




But 'tis past — and, tho' blazon'd in story 
The name of our Victor may be, 

Accurst is the march of that glory 

Which treads o'er the hearts of the free 

Far dearer the grave or the prison. 

Illumed by one patriot name. 
Than the trophies of all, who have risen 

On Liberty's ruins to fame. 



vr 



gilij gentle ^ux\i 

^tlX\\ gentle Harp, once more I waken 

The sweetness of thy slumbering strain, 
In tears our last farewell was taken, 

And now in tears we meet again. 
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken. 

But, like those Harps whose heav'nly skill 
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken. 

Thou hanti'st upon the willows still. 





Wimmj^Z 





And yet, since last thy chord resounded, 

An hour of peace and triumph came, 
And many an ardent bosom bounded 

With hopes — that now are turn'd to shame. 
Yet even then, while Peace was singing 

Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, 
Tho' joy and hope to others bringing, 

She only brought new tears to thee. 

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, 

My drooping Harp, from chords like thine? 
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure , 

As ill would suit the swan's, decline! ^ 
Or how sliall I, who love, who bless thee. 

Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains. 
When ev'n the wreaths in which I dress thee, 

Are sadly mix'd — half flow'rs, half chains? 

But come — if yet thy frame can borrow 

One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me, 
And show the world, in chains and sorrow, 
How sweet thy music still can be; 
)^ How gaily, ev'n mid gloom surrounding. 
Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thri 
r il Memnon's broken image sound 
Mi.l desolation tuneful still! 





J^;:^ 



^'" 'V^rC^' 



^^.^S^ 



^ 



When, round the bowl, of vanisli'd years 

We talk, with joyous seeming, — 
With smiles that might as well be tears, 

So foint, so sad their beaming ; 
While mem'rv brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us, 
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then 

To those we've left behind us. 



n\ 



And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle, or vale enchanting, 
Where all looks flow'ry, wild, and sweet. 

And nought but love is wanting ; 
We think how great had been our bliss, 

If Heav'n had but assign'd us 
To live and die in scenes like this, 

With some we've left behind us ! 



^M 



As trav'llers oft look back at eve. 

When eastward darkly going. 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them glowing,— 
So, when the close of pleasure's day 

To gloom hath near consign'd us, 
Wc turn to catch one fading ray 

Of joy that's left behind us. 



^ 



i« the §Xmmci of fife. 

^U tlie morning of lilo, when its cares are unknown, 

And its pleasures in all their new lustre hegin, 
When we live in a bright-beaming worhl of our own 

And the light that surrounds us is all from within 
Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time 

We can love, as in hours of less transport we may ;- 
Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, 

But affection is truest when these fade away. 



When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, 

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return ; 
When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so higl 

First tastes of the ofJicr, the dark-flowing urn; 
Then, then is the time when afiection holds sway 

With a deptli and a tenderness joy never knew; 
Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they. 

But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow is tin 




/WhfU cold in the earth hes the fiiend thou hast loved, 3 ^ 
Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then , 0^(1^ | 
Oi, if from their slumber the veil be removed, 'ilM |l 

Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again 1' " ' 

\iid oh! if 'tis pain to remember how far | 

l''rom the pathways of light he was tempted to 10 am | 
1 ,i it bliss to remember that thou wert the stai I 

That arose on his darkness, and guided him homt 



^M 



rom thee and thy innocent beauty first came 

The revealings, that taught him true love to adore, 
To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame^ 

From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. 
O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild^ 

Thou earnest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea; 
And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled 

On his ev'ning horizon, the light was from thee. 



^ 



And tho', sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise, 

And tho' falsehood again would allure him to stray, 
-He but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes, 

And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanish'd away. 
As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim. 

At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair, 
So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him. 

He but flew to that smile and rekindled it there. 



^ 



,.=S2je^ 



l0 pdicsi' ^iJf!5i. 



^0 Ladies' eyes around, boy, 

We can't refuse, we can't refuse, 
Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy, 

'Tis bard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. 
For thick as stars that lighten 

Yon airy bow'rs, yon airy bow'rs, 
The countless eyes that brighten 

This earth of ours, this earth of ours. 
But fill the cup — where'er, boy, 

Our choice may fall, our choice may flxll, 
We're sure to find love there, boy. 

So drink them all ! so drink them all ! 

Some looks there are so holy. 

They seem but giv'n, they seem but glv'n. 
As shining beacons, solely, 

To light to heav'n, to light to heav'n. 



^h 



v] 



..=^iS;;^i]^ak_ 




While some — oh ! ne'er beheve them — 

With tempting ray, with tempting ray, 
Would lead us (God forgive them !) 

The other way, the other way. 
But fill the cup — where'er, boy, 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, 
We're sure to find Love tliere, boy. 

So drink them all ! so drink them all ! 

In some, as in a mirror, 

Love seems pourtray'd. Love seems ponrtray'd. 
But shun the flattering error, 

'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade. 
Himself has fix'd his dwelling 

Li eyes we know, in eyes we know. 
And lips — but this is telling — 

So here they go ! so here they go ! 
Fill up, fill up — where 'er, boy. 

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall. 
We're sure to find Love there, boy, 

So drink them all ! so drink them all ! 



n. 



m 










^A,> 



^^<f>fJt AiJllfldt^ ^rT>^'J~- t U. t^.iiiiii,i^,i,.i\i [.lty.aiMttH,i,; nil^. |,. S^I/JfiiftimfHttftf^jl 







^\ ,ff ... J$ 






Tlien, wreath tlie bowl 

With flowers of soul, 
The brightest Wit can find us ; 

We'll take a flight 

Tow'rds heaven to-night, 
And leave dull earth behind us. 

'Twas nectar fed 

Of old, 'tis said, 
Their Junos, Joves, ApoUos; 

And man may brew 

His nectar too, 
The rich receipt 's as follows : 

Tahe wine like this, 

Let looks of bliss 
Aiouud it well be blended, 

Then binig Wit's beam 

To \\aim the stream, 
And theie's your nectar, splendid! 

So wieath the bowl 

With flowers of soul, 
The bughtest Wit can find us; 

We'll take a flight 

Tow'rds heaven to-night, 
And lea\e dull earth behind us. 




^ Jt^- -^ 



^K?g 




<5hcjj m\% vail at this; ^ift 

©UfJJ may rail at this life — from tlie hour I began it, 

I found it a life full of kindness and bliss ; 
And, until they can show me some happier planet. 

More social and bright, I '11 content me with this. 
As long as the world has such lips and such eyes, 

As before me this moment enraptured I see. 
They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies, 

But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. 

In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them 

New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, 

> Tho' the nymphs may have li\clier poet'^ to snig them,^' 

They\e none, even there, moie cnamoui'd than I. 

And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to lo\e, (^ 

And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, 
,They may talk as they will of their Edens above. 
But thib earth is the [ilanet for you, love, and m 




c 



{^r^ 



%,^^ 




Ill that star of tlie west, by whose shadowy splendoui 
, -_3 At twilight so often we 've roam'd through the dew 
ll^ S' There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tendi 
-^^ And look, in their twilight, as lovely as you 



I 



fi 




ii~„ 




m^ 










^t*tt asife the gottt 

'""■-^ ^CVV ask the hour — wliat is it to us 

How Time deals out his treasures ? 
The golden moments lent us thus, 

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. 
It counting them o'er could add to thei 

I 'd number each glorious second : 
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's 

Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd 
Then fill the cup — what is it to us 

How Time his circle measures? 
The fairy hours we call up thus. 

Obey no wand but Pleasure's. 



Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hour' 
I ]^^ ^ 7~^ Till Care, one summer's morning, 
^^i^f^ ■!%.[ I ^^'^ "P' among his smiling flowers, 
Y^^*Y>'^') -^ ^^''^^' '^y "^^''^y '^^ warnin" 




:..^A 



T^ 



%.=.~^"-=. 



^Sk'^. 



^^<^ 



ff tliou'It be mine. 



i3/f thou It be mine, the treasures of an, 
Of eaith and sea, shall lie at thy feet, 
Wlutever in Fancy's eye looks fair 

Oi in Hope's sweet music souncL 1 lost sweet, 
Shall be ouis — if thou wilt be mine, Jo\e' 



^ V llBiijfht floweis shall bloom wherevei -ue io\e, 
A \oice dume sliall talk in each stu ini 
Tilt stiis shall look like worlds of lo\c 
And this exith be all one beautil 

In oui L)eb — if thou wilt be liinie, I 



1% \-->> 



And thoughts, whose source is hidden and 

Like stieamb, that come from lieaven-ward hills, 

FihxU keep oui hearts, like meads, that lie 
To be bathed by those eternal rills, 

E\ei ^uen if thou wilt be mine, love! 

All this and moie the Spirit of Love 

Can bieathe o'er them, who feel his spells; 

Thit hea\en, A\hich forms his home above. 
He c\n md^L on earth, wherever he dwells. 
As thou It own, — if thou wilt be mine, love! 









^hcttc'n* g isf<? th0,^c ;!smiling ttjcss. 



'lii^hfUC'iCV I see those smiling oyi 

So full of hope, and joy, and light. 
As if no doud could ever rise, 

To dim a heav'n so purely bright— 
I sigh to think how soon that brow 

In grief may lose its every ray. 
And that light heart, so joyous now, 

Almost forget it once was gay. 



For time will come with all its blights. 

The ruined hope, the friend unkind. 
And love, that leaves, where'er it lights, 

A chill'd or burning heart behind: — 
While youth, that now like snow appears. 

Ere sullied by the dark'ning rain. 
When once 'tis touch'd by sorrow's tears 

Can never shine so bright again. 



h^ 





oil for the Kings who flourish'd then ! 

Oh for the [lo'inp that crown'd thein, 
When hearts and hands of freeborn men 

Were all the ramparts round them. 
When, safe built on bosoms true, 

Tlie throne was but the centre, 
Round which Love a circle drew, 

That Treason durst not enter. 
Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then ! 

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them. 
When hearts and hands of freeborn men 

Were all the ramparts round them! 




<f ail 0u, ml 0n. 

<^ail on, sail on, thou fearless bark — 

Wherever blows the welcome wind, 
It cannot lead to scenes more dark, 

More sad than those we leave behind. 
Each wave that passes seems to say, 

"Though death beneath our smile may be, 
"Less cold we are, less false than they, 

" Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee. 



Sail on, sail on, through Endless space — 

Through calm— through tempest — stop no more : 
The stormiest sea 's a resting place 

To him who leaves such hearts on shore. 
Or — if some desert land we meet. 

Where never yet false-hearted men 
Profaned a world, that else were sweet, — 

Then rest thee, bark, but not till then. 



//' 




,^0^ 

^-'^h 




<^f'i, sad one of Sion, if closely resembling," 
In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart — 

It drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling' 
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art. 



Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken, 
,v|) And fall'n from her head is the once royal crown ; 
"In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken. 
And " while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down 

Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning. 
Die far from the home it were life to behold; 



/■'^'' A-Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, \qi 



sx 



lember the bright things that bless'd them of ok^ij 



All, well may we call her, like thee "the Forsaken," '° 
Her boldest are vanquish'd, her proudest are slaves ; 

And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken. 
Have tones 'mid their mirth like the wind over graves! 

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance — yet came there the morrow, 
That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, i''-\ i 

|f'']H When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, Tu" ^ 
Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight. 



When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City^" pxl 
Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips; 

And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, 
The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships. 

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over 
■* ,| Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, 
w And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworrii to cover,*" 
^ The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust.'* 





§m\\ of M^ rup. 

^Viuk of tills cup;— you '11 find there 's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality ; 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen ! 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 
Would you forget the dark world we are in, 

Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; 
But would you rise above earth, till akin 

To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it; 
Send round the cup — for oh there 's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen ! 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 



Never was philter form'd with such power 

To -charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; 

Its magic began, when, in Autumn's rich hour, 
A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. 



There having, by Nature's enchantment, been fill'd 

With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, 
This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd 

To enliven such hearts as are here brought together. 
Then drink of the cup — you '11 find there 's a spell in 

Its every drojj 'gainst the ills of mortality; 
Talk of the cordial that spai'kled for Helen ! 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. 

And though, perhaps — but breathe it to no one — 

Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, 
This philter in secret was first taught to flow on, 

Yet 'tis n't less potent for being unlawful. 
And, ev'n though it taste of the smoke of that flame, 

Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden- 
Fill up — there 's a fire in some hearts I could name. 

Which may work too its charm, though as lawless and 
hidden. 
So drink of the cup — for oh there 's a spell in 

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; 
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen ! 

Her cup was a fiction, but this is realitv. 



ct 



^ 



Si 



lA-d 



^ 



It IS hue, it IS true, we are shadows cold and wan; 
And the fair and the brave whom we lov'd on earth 
are gone ; 

But still thus ev'n in death; 

So sweet the living breath 
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wan- 
der'd o'er, 

That ere, condemn 'd, we go 

To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow. 
We would taste it awliilf^, and think we live once more ! 





J 



j alOWU in the valley come meet me to-night. 

And I'll tell you your foitune truly ^^-ct-n^ "^'/0/T 

\s ever 'twas told, by the new moon's light '-'^(\CJ§^r'>itJi'^ 




i^ 




But, for the world, let no one be nigh, 
Lest haply the stars should deceive ine ; 

Such secrets between you and me and the sky 
Should never go farther, believe me. 

If at that hour the heav'ns be not dim. 
My science shall call up before you 

A male apparition, — the image of him 
Whose destiny 't is to adore you. 

And if to that phantom you'll be kind. 
So fondly around you he '11 hover. 

You '11 hardly, my dear, any difference find 
'Twixt him and a true living lover. 



Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, 
He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion — 

An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite 
You 'd scarcely believe had a notion. 

What other thoughts and events may arise, 
As in destiny's book I 've not seen them, 

Must only be left to the stars and your eyes 
To settle, ere morning, between them. 





^-m/v/' 



.->''V. 



^/r"'V ■ 



.M----^ 



:::^<:^'-ir-^^^ 



l^^ 



^^%. 



yi 




Oh banquet not. 



(^h banquet not in those shining bowers, 

Where Youtli resorts, but come to me; 
For mine 's a garden of faded flowers, 

More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. 
And there we shall have our feast of tears, 

And many a cup in silence pour; 
Our guests, the shades of former years, 

Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more. 



There, while the myrtle's withering boughs 

Their lifeless leaves around us shed, 
We '11 brim the bowl to broken vows, 

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. 
Or, while some blighted laurel waves 

Its branches o'er the dreary spot. 
We'll drink to those neglected graves, 

Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot ! 




i 



^^^ 




^0ttl &i;\eet the an&wei Echo makes 

To music at night, 
When, roused by kite or horn, she wakes. 
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes. 

Goes answerino; lidit. 



Yet Love hath echoes truer far, 

And far more sweet, 
Tlian e'er beneath the moonlight's star, 
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar. 

The songs repeat. 

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere. 

And only then, — 
The sigh that's breath 'd for one to hear 
Is by that one, that only dear, 
2'-^*^a Breathed back again 






^htt, i\m, 0tttvj ihtt 

iliint dawning of morn, the dayliglit's sinking, 
The niglit's long hours still find me thinking 

Of thee, thee, only thee. 

When friends are met, and goblets crown 'd, 

And smiles are near, that once enchanted, 

Unreacli'd by all that sunshine round. 

My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted 

By thee, thee, only thee. 

-^^Hiatever in fame's high path, could wak^ 






<<~>^ 



Shame, oh shame unto thee, 

If ever thou see'st that day, 
When a cup or a hp shall woo thee. 
And turn untouch'd away 

Then, quick! we have but a second, 

Fill round, fill round, while you may 
For Time, the churl, hath beckon 'd. 
And we must away, away ! 



i \v\$h g wr^ h\^ titat Aim §nU 

^ Wi'Slt I was by that dim Lake, 
Where sinful souls their farewell take 
Of this vain world, and half-way lie 
In death's cold shadow, ere they die. 
There, there, far from thee, 
Deceitful world, my home should be ; 
Where, come what might of gloom and pain, 
False hope should ne'er deceive again. 




The lifeless sky, tlie mournful sound 

Of unseen waters falling round ; 

The dry leaves, quiv'ring o'er my head, 

Like man, unquiet ev'n when dead! 

These, ay, these shall wean 

My soul from life's deluding scene, 

And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, 

Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb. 

As they, who to their couch at night 
Would win repose, first quench the light. 
So must the hopes, that keep this breast 
Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest. 
Cold, cold, this heart must grow, 
jUnmoved by either joy or woe, 
)Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown 
Within their current turns to stone. 



,^ /^^ 



/■ '■ 



r=^^^^^?f^1fl 




^VCtti Innisfallen, fare thee well, 

May calm and sunshine long be thine! 

How fair thou art let others tell, — 
To feel how fair shall long be mine. 



Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell 

In memory's dream that sunny smile, 

Which o'er thee on that evening fell 
When first I saw thy fairy isle. 

'T was light, indeed, too blest for one, 
Who had to turn to paths of care — 
''>y Through crowded haunts again to run. 

And leave thee bright and silent there: 



^ 



No more unto thy shores to come. 
But, on the world's rude ocean tost. 

Dream of thee sometimes, as a home 
Of sunshine he had seen and lost. 



^ff 




^_ 



^rw 



Far better in thy weeping hours 
To part from thee, as I do now, 

When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, 
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. 

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, 
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, 

But thus in shadow, seeha'st a place 

Where erring man might hope to rest — 

Might hope to rest, and find in thee 
A gloom like Eden's, on the day 

He left its shade, when every tree. 

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way. 

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle! 

And all the lovelier for thy tears — 
For tho' but rare thy sunny smile, 

'T is heav'n's own glance when it appears. 

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few. 
But, when indeed they come, divine — 

The brightest light the sun e'er threw 
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine ! 



^ 



d 



9)»? 



^^-^i 






■ #4^-*^^ 




^-Cifc 



w. 



When morning's beam ib glan( n J'i 
i/t|^^^ys»r IT j^lX^' O'er files array'd, -/ \ r 

^l^i f'^^J^ly And plmnes, in the gay wind d uu mi V 

When hearts are all high beatiiij^, \ ^ | ^ ;? 
■rf (n%. And the trumpet's voice lepeatmg \ \ li\\fl 

3^JfQ)^^t^^That song, whose biea^ 

^<^^ ^^^%May lead to death, W^ ' ' 4^^ 
But never to retreating. ^■^(j:-'' JHfhl 
,= _^ 






Oh the sight entrancing, 
When morning's beam is glancing 
O'er files array'cl 
With helm and blade, 
And plumes, in the gay wind dancin 

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather — 

For ask yon despot, whether 
His plumed bands 
Could bring such hands 

And hearts as ours together. 

Leave pomps to those who need 'em 

Give man but heart and freedom. 
And proud he braves 
The gaudiest slaves 

That crawl where monarchs lead 'em 

The sword may pierce the beaver, 
5^^ Stone walls in time may sever, 
'T is mind alone. 
Worth steel and stone, 

That keeps men free for ever. 

Oh that sight entrancing. 

When the morning's beam is glancin: 
O'er files array'd 
With helm and blade, 

And in Freedom's cause advancing;! 



0M'f<^^^ 




C\l 




'i wu one 0i iU^t §xm\x^ 

@ tt^JtJi one of tliose dreams, that by imislc are brought, 
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm ihought- 
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, 
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone. 

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those 
He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes. 
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er 
From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded shore. 

/j He listen'd — while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest. 
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest; 
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire. 
As if loth to let song so enchanting expire. 

It seem'd as if ev'ry sweet note, that died here. 
Was again brouglit to life in some airier sphere, 
Some heav'n in those hills, where the soul of the strain 
That had ceased upon earth was awaking again 




-/kzx^^'2^ 



Oil foit,i\(, it wliik li-,t( 111114 to nmM(, whost hiuitl 
Stcm'd to (11.1, 



,,'-^.^' 



%^ ITtslioul.lful .pioiH]S,,n,t\Mtl,ni 
^iS "-E\tii so shalt tlidu li%e 111 tin c.li.i 



nc witli a cliiini a^uiist dtilli, 
limi ]>io(_l iini, 
>ut 1 ini, 



J% »^ 



/ V 



"Evtn so, tlio' tin mcmon siiould now dit aw i^ , 
"Tuill 1)( f uio:lit lip io,ii) 111 some happiei clay, ^ xM^ 

"And tlic luxits and tlie \(u<(s of Eiin piolono;, \ 

'a^Lioiij-h the ins\\ti 1114 riitiiic, tin num ind tin son-^.i' 



















iaitc-st ! \mt m iwMt 

^^ 

^aitCStl put on awhile 

These pinions of liglit I bring thee, 
And o'er thy own green isle 

In fancy let me wing thee. 
Never did Ariel's plume, 

At golden sunset hover 
O'er scenes so full of bloom, 

As I shall waft thee over. 

Fields, where the Spring delay 

And fearlessly meets the ardour 
Of the warni Summer's gaze, 

With only her teai's to guard her. 
Rocks, through myrtle boughs 

In grace majestic frowning; 
Like some bold warrior's brows 

That Love hath just been crownin 



Islets, 



freslily fair, 




-\^^'v'7 



^i 



That never liath bird come nigli them. 
But fi'om his course thro' air 

He hath been won down by them; — " 
Types, sweet maid, of thee, 

Wliose look, whose blush inviting. 
Never did Love yet see 

From Heav'n, without alighting. 

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,*^ 

And caves, where the gem is sleeping. 
Bright as the tears thy lid 

Lets fall in lonely weej^ing. 
Glens," where Ocean comes. 

To 'scape the wild wind's rancour, 
And Harbours, worthiest homes 

Where Freedom's fleet can anchor. 

Then, if, while scenes so grand, 

So beautiful, sliine before thee. 
Pride for thy own dear land 

Should haply be stealing o'er thee. 
Oil, let grief come first. 

O'er pride itself victorious — 
Thinking how man hath curst 

What Heaven had made so glorious! 





l^U- 



^ttd doth not a meeting like this make amends, 

For all the long years I 've been wand'ring away — 
To see thus around me my youth's early friends, 

As smiling and kind as in that happy day? 
Though hapl)^ o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine, 

The snow-fall of time may be stealing — what then ? 
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine. 

We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again. 

What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart. 

In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! 

The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were pai 

Still round them, like visions of yesterday, thronf 
jAs letters some hand liath invisibly traced. 

When held to the flame will steal out on the siglit'^ 
many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced, 
.''lie warmth of a moment like this brings to light. 





And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, 

To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, 
Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide. 

The wreck of full many a hope shining through ; 
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers. 

That once made a garden of all the gay shore. 
Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours, 

And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more." 

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, 

Is all we can have of the few we hold dear; 
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost. 

For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. 
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone. 

To meet in some world of more permanent bliss. 
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast'ning on, 

Is all we enjoy of each other in this.'"' 

But, come, the more rare such delights to the lieart, 
The more we should welcome and bless them the more ;'' 

They're ours, when we meet, — they are lost when we part, 
Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er. 






r"} -^\ ^ ) 





'^ lliu I ulIui^ the cup, hand in hand, ere we dunk, 
Let Sympathy pledge u&, thio' plea^uie, thio' p.un 
That, fast as a feehng but touches one hnk. 
Her mao-ic shall send it diiect thio' the chain 



b 






(^UHU tlie Harp then be silent, when he who first gave 
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes? 

Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave 
Where the first — where the last of her Patriots lies? 

No — faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips, 
Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost. 

Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse. 

And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost ; — 

What a union of all the affections and powers 
By which life is exalted, embellish 'd, refined, 

Was embraced in that spirit — whose centre was ours, 
While its mighty circumference circled mankind. 




Oii, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, 

Through the waste of her nnnals, that epoch subhme- 

Like a pyramid raised in the desert — where he 
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time; 



<3 




That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the gloom 
And the madness of ages, when fill'd with liis soul, 

A Nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom, 
And lor one sacred instant, touchd Liberty's goal? 

Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drank at the source 
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, 

In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, 
And the yet untamed spring of her sjiirit are shown? 

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave 

Wander'd free and triumphant, with thoughts that 
shone through. 

As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave, 
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. 

Who, that ever approach'd him, when free from the crowd, 
In a home full of love, he deliglited to tread 

e trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bow'd, 
each bi-onght a new civic crown for his head — Py 




k^ 1^ J' ^\ iJy the Feal b wave benighted, '^ ^ ^-Wl) 

U WW^. i/VJ To thy aoor by Love lighted, f VifW^ 
I fii&t saw those eyes I ^^ % c 



Some voice whisper'd o'er me, '9 |||w«»«f^y^ ^™ . 

As the threshold I ciost, / Jf . ' ' ' M ' %f/ 
Theie was luin befoie me, li^uf ^'''^\m^ 



' It I lo\ed, I was lost Jj^j 





l.ove came, and brought sorrow 

Too soon in his train ; 
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow 

'T were welcome again. 
Though misery's full measure 

My portion should be, 
I would drain it with pleasure. 

If pour'd out by thee. 

You, who call it dishonour 

To bow to this flame. 
If you've eyes, look but on her. 

And blush while you blame. 
Hath the pearl less whiteness 

Because of its birth? 
Hath the violet less brightness 

For growing near earth? 



No — Man for his glory 

To ancestry flies; 
But Woman's bright story 

Is told in lier eyes. 
While the Monarch but traces 

Thro' mortals his line, 
Beauty, born of Graces, 

Banks next to Divine ! 



'"R^^ 

f. 




OT Vt a secret to tell thee, but hush ! not here, — 

Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps: 
I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear. 

Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps ; 
Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies, 

Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush; 
Where, if but a •note her night-bird sighs. 

The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush 

There, amid the deep silence of that hour. 
When stars can be heard in ocean di]). 
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower. 

Sit mute, with thy finger on tliy lip: 
Like him, the boy,"" who born among 

The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, 
J^^l^^ Sits ever thus, — his only song ^' 

( rvVf To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!" 



^^ 








L^ 



alU yonder valley there dwelt, alone, 
A youth, whose moments had calmly flown, 
^,Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night, 
1 f V { ^^ ^^^^ haunted and watch'd by a Mountain Sj>iite. . 



As once, by moonlight, lie wander'd o'er 
The golden sands of that island shore, 
A foot-print sparkled before his sight — 
'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite! 

Beside a fountain, one sunny day, J 

As bending over the stream he lay, 
There peep'd down o'er him two eyes of light, ^ 

And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite 

He turn'd, but, lo, like a startled bird, 

That spirit fled — and the youth but heard 

Sweet music, such as marks the fliglit 

Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite. i( 

One night, still haunted by that bright look, 

The boy, bewilder'd, his pencil took. 

And, guided only l:)y memory's light. 

Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite 



\^ 








,:z:^"0\\ thou, who lo\est the shKl()\\,"( lied 
A voice, low wliisperiiig by his side, 
Now turn and see," — here the youth's deligliti 







Re^l'd tlie rosy lips of the Mount 
Of all the Spirits of land and sea," 



/(P |j Then rapt he murmur'd, " there 's none like line 

" And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light 
"111 this lonelv bower, sweet IMountain Sprite! 



^outn-s flelIgllt^ -^,^ "'^ 




'^'^ 



^^ vmtixMt'A ^^»tt« 




%^ vanquish'd Erin wept beside 

The Boyne's ill-fated river, 
She saw where Discord, in the tide. 

Had dropp'd his loaded quiver. 
"Lie hid," she cried, "ye venom'd darts, 

"Where mortal eye may shun you; 
"Lie hid— the stain of manly hearts, 

"That bled for me, is on you." 

But vain her wish, her weeping vain,— 

As Time too well hath taught her— 
Each year the Fiend returns again. 

And dives into that water; 
And brings, triumphant, from beneath 

His shafts of desolation. 
And sends them, wing'd with worse than death 

Throuo-h all her madd'ning nation. 



Alas for her who sits and mourns 
Ev'n now, beside that river — 

Unwearied still the Fiend returns. 
And stored is still his quiver 



,\£r^ 





/^ 





" When will this end, ye Powers of Good '^ 

She weeping asks for ever ; 
But only hears, from out that flood, 

The Demon answer, " Ne\ 



^in(]|. sweet Harp, oh sing to me 

Some song of ancient days. 
Whose sounds, in this sad memory. 

Long buried dreams shall raise ; — 
Some lay that tells of vanish'd fame, 

Whose lightonce round us shone; 
Of noble pride, now turn'd to shame. 

And hopes for ever gone. — 
Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me; 

Alike our doom is cast, 
Both lost to all but memory. 

We live but in the past. 



How mournfully the midnight air 

Among thy chords doth sigh, 
As if it sought some echo there 

Of voices long gone by ; — 
Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seem'd 

The foremost then in fame ; 
Of Bards who, once immortal deem'd. 

Now sleep without a name. — 
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air 

Among thy chords doth sigh ; 
In vain it seeks an echo there 

Of voices long gone by. 



Could'st thou but call those spirits round. 

Who once, in bower and hall. 
Sate listening to thy magic sound. 

Now mute and mouldering all ; — 
But, no ; they would but wake to weep 

Their children's slavery; 
Then leave them in their dreamless sleep, 

The dead, at least, are free ! — 
Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone, 

That knell of Freedom's day; 
Or, listening to its death-like moan, 

Let me, too, die away. 





(; 



}) flit sung of §m. 

^\Xt sung of Love, while o'er lier lyre 

The rosy rays of evening fell, 
As if to feed with their soft fire 

The soul within that trembling shell. 
The same rich light hung o'er her cheek. 

And play'd around those lips that sung 
And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak. 

If Love could lend their leaves a tongue. 



i 



But soon the West no longer burn'd. 

Each rosy ray from heav'n withdrew ; 
And, when to gaze again 1 turn'd. 

The minstrel's form seem'd fading too. 
As if her light and heav'n's were one, 

The glory all had left that frame; 
And from her glimmering lips the tone. 

As from a parting spirit, carae.'° 



II 







Who ever loved, but had the thought 

That he and all he loved must part ? 
Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught 

The fading image to my heart — 
And cried, " Oh Love ! is this thy doom ? 

" Oh light of youth's resplendent day ! 
'• Must ye then lose your golden bloom, 

"And thus, like sunshine, die awav ? " 




(^tviHC the gay harp! see the moon is on high, 
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, 

Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye. 
Obey the mute call, and heave into motion. 

Then, sound notes — the gayest, the lightest, 

That ever took wing, when heav'n look'd brightest! 
Again! Again! 








Oh ! could such heart-stirring music be heard 

In that City of Statues described by romancers, 
So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirr'd. 

And statues themselves all start into dancers ! 



Why then delay, with suoh sounds in our ears. 

And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us, — 
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres, 

And list'ning to ours, hang wondering o'er us? 
Again, that strain! — to hear it thus sounding 

Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding — 
Again ! Again ! 
Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay. 

Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather 
Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May, 

And mingle sweet song and sunshine together ! 






gxom tluji giout tilt f Irdgc b (^mn 

Jct01U this hour the pledge is given, 

From tliis liour my soul is thine: 
Come what will, from earth or heaven, 

Weal or woe, thy fate be mine. 
When the proud and great stood by thee, 

None dared thy rights to spurn ; 
And if now they're false and fly thee. 

Shall I, too, basely turn? 
No ;— whate'er the fires that try thee. 

In the same this heart shall burn. 

Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest, 

Offers now no friendly shore, 
Light may come where all looks darkest, 

Hope hath life, when life seems' o'er. 
And, of those past ages di-eaming. 

When glory deck'd thy brow. 
Oft I fondly think, though seeming 

So fall'n and clouded now. 
Thou 'It again break forth, all beaminr, 

None so bright, so blest as thou! 





I^ff ^ 



du 



:v:^-^j7^1-:^g^ --^.^^si^VK^ 




.:^ t 






a 







®IlC wme cup IS ciitling in Alinliin's hall,' 

And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining, -^ 
Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall, 
Wheie his sword hangs idly shining. 
AVhen, hark ! that shout 

From the vale without, — • ^ . ^ ^ 

^\ C^" \i 111 ye quick, the Dane, the Daneis nigh!" ^'V^ ^ 

e ^wiM^ Kv'ry Chief starts up 

'^^\^ ^^^^F From his foaming cup. 







The minstrels have seized tlieir harps of gold, 

And they sing such thrilling numbers, — 
'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old. 

Breaking forth from their place of slumbers' 
Spear to buckler rang, 
As the minstrel sang, 
And the Sun-burst" o'er them floated wide. 
While rememb'ring the yoke 
Which their fathers bi-oke, 
"On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cued 

Like (_lou<ls of the night the Noithmen came, 

O'er the \ alley of Almhm lowenng, 
Wlnle onwaid moved, m the light of its fame. 
That bannei of Eiin. towering 
With the mingling shock. 
Rung cliff and lock, 
While, lank on lank, the iiuadeis die 
And the shout, that last 
O'er the dying pass'd. 
Was "victory' \ictorv'" — the Fmian's cry 



— -^-'0 „ ^ 



§ mv fmw the ^mk 




3I ISIHIV from the beach, when the morning was shining;,' 
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on ; 

I came when the sun o'er that beach was doclinnig. 
The bark was still there, but the waters were tione 



And sucli is the fate of our life's early proniise, 
^\ So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known 
^Ecicli wave, that we danc'd on at morning, ebbs fiom us,^^ 
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone 





Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning 

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night ,- 

Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Mornmg, LU 
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light 

i / 

yOh, who would not welcome that moment's returning. 

When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame. 

And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious m burninc, 

Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame r~)'^| y-f 





x^ 



\rJr^^ 



^r\ 



(t?^ 



ft« 



®lit Dream «( tliasc §np. 



$ 



®ItC dream of those days wlien first I sung tbee is o'er, 
Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sorrows then wore ; 
And ev'n of the Ught which Hope once shed o'er thy cliains, 
Ahis, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains. 

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart. 
That still the dark brand is tliere, tho' chainless thou art ; 
^^i\ And Freedom's sweet fruit, for wliich thy spirit long burn'd, 
Now. reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd? 



Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, 
With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread 
Ah, better thou ne'er had'st lived that summit to gain, 
Or died in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane. 



^^ 



:^^^> gjmif^.TO- 





(i 




,^;^ Tis true in manliest e}es 

N| A passing tear will rise, 

When we think of the friends we leave lone; 
But what can wailing do? 
See, our goblet's weeping too! 
With its tears we'll chase away our own, bov, 

our own ; 
With its tears we '11 chase away our own. 

But daylight's stealing on; — 
The last that o'er us shone 
Saw our children around us play; 
The next — ah ! where shall we 
And those rosy urchins be? 
Q/ But — no matter — grasp thy sword and away, 
(T' boy, away; 

izi^' No matter — grasp thy sword and away ! 

Let those, who Ijrook the chain 

Of Saxon or of Dane, 
Ignobly by their fire-sides stay; 

One sigh to home be given, 

One heartfelt prayer to heaven, 
Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! 
lurra! hurra! 



u 










ffl!^ 



#'g0n0l«tc'^ pi,!Stvc^^ 



C9t all the fair months, that round the sun 
In light-linkVl dance their circles run, 

Sweet May, shine thou for me; 
For still, when thy earliest beams arise, 
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, 

Sweet May, returns to me. 

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves 
Its lingering smile on golden eves, 

Fair Lake, thou 'rt dearest to me ; 
For when the last April sun grows dim. 
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him " 

Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee. 

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore 
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore, 

White Steed, most joy to thee; 
Who still, with the first young glance of spring. 
From under that glorious lake dost bring 

My love, my chief, to me. 





n 



'While, white as the sail some bark untiui^, "^ 

When newly launch'd, thy long mane" cuih, ^^ 

Fair Steed, as white and free ; 
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, 
^ Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, 
Around my love and thee. 

'Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, 
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, 

Most sweet that death will be, 
Which, under the next May evening's light,-^^ 
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight ^p^ ^ 



\ d Dear love, I'll die for thee. ( -fyk,^ rt 




ca ) 







Oh, what would liave been young Beauty's doom, 

Without a bard to fix her bloom? 

They (ell us, in \\\o moon's briglit I'ound, 

ThiiiL's lost in this dark world arc I'ound; 

!-i() charms, on earth long pass'd and gone, 

In tJK! ])oct's lay live on. — 

\V(iul(l ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim? 

You've only to give them all lo 

Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand, 

(Jan lend (hem lilr, this life beyond. 

And lix them high, in I'ciesy's sky, — 

Young stai's that never die! 

Then, welcome (he bard where'er ho comes 
1 /u M '*''"' ^'""'■'^''' '"^ '"^'''' countless airy homes, 
|/ LiV \ To which his wing excursive roves, 
Yet s(ill, from time to time, he loves 
To light UjuMi cardi and lind such cheer 
As bright.Mis <,ur ban.iuet here. 
No maJier how far, Imw lleet he (lies. 
You've only (o light u[> kind young eyes, 



Huch siirnal- 



as iiere are given. 



J/Jl ■» '^ "4 ^^'"^^ down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven, 
^'^Ai^^f^^JK ^-l-'l"' minute such call to love or mirth ^_-^H 
f ' < 'JA ['reclaims he's wanting on earth! //l u ^ 



P-^^f^ 




1.T ^ ^inj^— .^iuji— pn,!Sif m\$ j^ivcS^.^ 

^^'\D(^itt(J— sing— Music was o-ivoii, 

To briirliten the gay, ami kin.ll.' (lio ioviui;: 
// BoulsluMv, liko planols i„ Jlcwvn, 

l')V liariiioiiy's laws alono are kopi inovinp;. 
Hoauty may boast, of lu>r eyes and lua- olicoks, 

15ut Tjovo from tlio lips his (rno arcluTy wing; 

Ana she, who l.nt loalhers (lio clar( wlion sho speaks, f\ 

At once sends it home to the lieart wlien she sinn-s. I 

'f^i Then sing — sing — Music was given, > // 

To brighten the gay, un.l kindle Ihr K.ving; ]/ / 

Souls here, like planets in lleav.-n, " M 

I'.y harmony's laws alone are kej-t moving. \ 

I'Im tl ' ^^''"■" l^^^-'^N '-^^^'l^'^l 'VV Iii« moth,'!-, 

Jjay sleeping as calm as slumber could m.ake hii 
"Hush, hush," said \'enus, "noolh.T 

"Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake hi 
1)n.annng,>rmusi,. h,' slund.erM the whlK- 
Till I'aint IVom Ins lip a, soft nu^lody bi'oke, 
^ij^ And Venus, enchanted, look'd (jn with a, smile, J> 

/^ljC\ Whde Love to liis own sweet, singing awoke /^r\ ^"^ 

^MJ^ Then sing-sing-Arnsie was g,ven, ^ f ^ '' 
To brighten tlu. gay, and kindle the lovingkX 

fCSoulshere, hke planets in Heaven, v^ 

^ ]Jy harmony's laws alone are kejit mov'^^^^^f •^' 



M 




Q^\ ®ltm lU'c !50un(b of ^ttivth. 




(jhttiC aie feoundb of mirth in the niglit-air 

And lamps from every casement shown ; 
While voices blithe within are singing, 

That seem to say "Come," in every tone. 
Ah ! once how light, in Life's young season, 

My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay ; 
Nor paus'd to ask of greybeard Reason 

Should I the syren call obey. 



^=£ 



L_ 



And, see — the lamps still livelier glitter, 

The syren lips more fondly sound; 
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter 

To sink in your rosy bondage bound. 
Sliall a bard, whom not the world in arms 

Could bend to tyranny's rude controul, 
Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms. 

And yield to a smile his freeborn soul? 





A 



^ 



iii^ ^un<r tlio ^ago, \\liilo, '-h 1_\ stcaliiiir, 

'i'lie iiMuplis tlioir fettci- iuoimd him (a>-t, \J. 



\\u\, — theii laiigIiingeje'!,tlie\\lHlo, concealing,— \ LtX 'j >^-- 
Led Freedom'^ Rird their blavp at la'<t. y " 



1 (ii tlie Poet''? lie.iit, still pione to lo\in<:, 
Was like that rock of the DniidS lace,"' 







^m^ 0f gttttisifail. 

®lt(|U came from a land beyond the sea, 

And now o'er the western main 
Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly, 

From the sunny land of Spain. 
"Oh, where 's the Isle we've seen in dreams, 

"Our destin'd home or grave?" " 
Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams. 

They swept the Atlantic wave. 



And, lo, whore afar o'er ocean shines 

A sparkle of radiant green, 
As though in that deep lay emerald mines, 

Wliose light through the wave was seen. 
" 'T is Innisfail — 't is Innisfail ! " " 

Rings o'er the echoing sea; 
While, bending to heav'n, the warriors hail 

That home of the brave and free. 

Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave, 
Where now their Day-God's eye 

A look of such sunny omen gave 
As lighted up sea and sky. 




m 



Nor frown was seen through sky or sea 

Nor tear o'er leaf or sod, 
When first on their Isle of Destiny 

Our great forefathers trod. 



^U\u in €xo\vA^ U mntUv 0tt. 




^l0n( in crowds to wander on, 

And feel that all the charm is gone 

Which voices dear and eyes beloved 

Shed round us once, where'er we roved — 

This, this the doom must be 

Of all who 've loved, and lived to see 

The few bright things they thought would stay 

For ever near them, die away. 

Tho' fairer forms around us throng, 
Their smiles to others all belong. 
And want that charm which dwells alone 
Round those the fond heart calls its own. 







Where, where the sunny brow? 

The long-known voice — where are they now? 

Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain, ,^\ 

The silence answers all too plain. """" 

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth, 

If all her art cannot call forth 

One bliss like those we felt of old 

From lips now mute, and eyes now cold? 

No, no, — her spell is vain, — 

As soon could she bring back again 

Those eyes themselves from out the grave, 

As wake again one bliss they gave. 



©U! Arranmore, loved Arrarmore, 

How oft I dream of thee, 
And of those days when, by thy shore, 

T wander'd young and free. 



J 



l'^^ 



ur^ 



Full many a path I've tried, since then, 
Through pleasure's flowery maze, 

But ne'er could find the bliss ao.un 
I felt in those sweet days. 




Plow blithe upon thy breezy cliffs 

At sunny morn I've stood, 
With heart as bounding as the skiffs 

That danced along thy flood ; 
Or, when the western wave grew biigljt 

With daylight's parting wing. 
Have sought that Eden in its light 

Which dreaming poets sing; — "' 

That Eden where th- immortal biave 

Dwell in a land serene, — 
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, 

At sunset, oft are seen. 
Ah dream too full of sadd'ning tiuth' 

Those mansions o'er the main 
Are like the hopes I built in youth, — 

As sunny and as vain. 



r\ 



#h, m\U m Ho with M^ ^mU $i out^. 

0\\f could we do with this world of ours 
As thou dost with thy garden bowers, 
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, 

What a heaven on earth we'd make it! 
So bright a dwelling should be our own. 
So warranted free from sigh or frown, 
That angels soon would be coming down. 

By the week or month to take it 

Like those gay flies that wing thro' aii 
And in themselves a lustre bear, 
A stock of light, still ready there. 

Whenever they wish to use it; 
So, in this world I 'd make for thee, 
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be, 
And the flash of wit or poesy 

Break forth whenever we choose it. 



1 




...aM 



While ev'ry joy that glacis our sphere 
Hath still some shadow hovemig neai, 
In this new world of ours, my dear, 

Such shadows will all be omitted: — 
Unless they 're like that graceful one, 
Which, when thou 'rt dancing in the sun. 
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon 

Each spot where it hath flitted ! 



Mtnu x$ in 0m gtM gattiiS." 



t^toa is in our festal halls,— 

Sweet Son of Song ! thy course is o'er ; 
In vain on thee sad Erin calls, 

Her minstrel's voice responds no more ; — 
All silent as tli' Eolian shell 

Sleeps at the close of some bright day. 
When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell 

At sunny morn, hath died away. 





Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long, 

Awaked by music's spell, shall rise; 
For, name'so link'd with deathless song 

Partakes its eharra and never dies; 
And ev'n witlnn the holy fane. 

When music wafts the soul to heaven. 
One thought to him, whose earliest strain 

Was echoed there, shall long be given. 

But, where is now the cheerful day, 

The social niglit, when, by thy side, 
He, who now weaves this parting lay, 

His skilless voice with thine allied; 
And sung those songs whose every tone. 

When bard and minstrel long have past. 
Shall still, in sweetness all their own, 

Embalm'd by fame, undying last. 

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fome, — 

Or, if tliy bard have shared the crown, 
Fiom thee the borrow'd glory came. 

And at thy feet is now laid down. 
Enougli, if Freedom still inspire 

His latest song, and still there be, 
As evening closes round his lyre. 

One ray upon its chords from thee. 






i»\t| his sword by his side, — it liath served hun too well 

Not to rest near his pillow below; 
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell 

Its point was still turiVd to a flying foe. 
Fellow-lab'rers in life, let theni slumber in death, 

Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave, — 
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, 

And himself unsubdued in his grave. 



■^'WT>.ra3>m> 





Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, 

As if breathed from his brave heart's i-emains ; — 
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear. 

Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!" 
And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, 

"Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, 
"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, — 

"It hath victory's life in it yet! 

"Should some ahen, unworthy such weapon to wield, 

"Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, 
"Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd, 

"Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. 
"But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use 

"Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain, — 
"Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, 

"Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!" 




ADYERTISEMENT 



FIRST AND SECOND NUMBERS. 

f",-^^ HOUGH the beauties of the National Music of 
J^Mj Ireland have been very generally felt and acknowl- 
\^^ edged, yet it has happened, through the want of 
appropriate English words, and of the arrangement necessary 
to adapt them to the voice, that many of the most excellent 
compositions have hitherto remained in obscurity. It is 
intended, therefore, to form a Collection of the best Original 
Irish Melodies, with characteristic Symphonies and Accom- 
paniments; and with Words containing, as frequently as 
possible, allusions to the manners and history of the country. 
Sir John Stevenson has very kindly consented to undertake 
the arrangement of the Airs; and the lovers of Simple Na- 
tional Music may rest secure, that in such tasteful hands, the 
native charms of the original melody will not be sacrificed 
to the ostentation of science. 



TREFATORY NOTICES. 

In the poetical Part, promises of assistance have been 
received from several distinguished Literary Characters; 
particularly from Mr. Moore, whose lyrical talent is so 
peculiarly suited to such a task, and whose zeal in the 
undertaking will be best understood from the following 
Extract of a Letter which he has addressed to Sir John 
Stevenson on the subject : — 

I feel very anxious that a work of this kind should be 
undertaken. We have too long neglected the only talent 
for which our English neighbours ever deigned to allow 
us any credit. Our National Music has never been properly 
collected*; and, while the composers of the Continent have 
enriched their Operas and Sonatas with Melodies borrowed 
from Ireland — very often without even the honesty of ac- 
knowledgment — we have left these treasures, in a great 
degree, unclaimed and fugitive. Thus our Airs, like too 
many of our countrymen, have, for want of protection at 
home, passed into the service of foreigners. But we are 
come, I hojje, to a better period of both Politics and Music; 



* The writer forgot, when he made this assertion, that the public are 
indebted to Mr. Bunting for a very valuable collection of Irish Music; 
and that the patriotic genius of Miss Owenson has been employed upon 
some of our finest airs. 



PREFATORY NOTICES. 

and how much they are connected, in Ireland at least, 
appears too plaiulj' in the tone of sorrow and depression 
which characterises most of our early Songs. 

The task which you propose to me, of adapting words to 
these airs, is by no means easy. The Poet, who would 
follow the various sentiments which they express, must 
feel and understand that rapid fluctuation of spirits, that 
unaccountable mixture of gloom and levity, which composes 
the character of my countrymen, and has deeply tinged 
their Music. Even in their liveliest strains we find some 
melancholy note intrude, — some minor Third or flat Sev- 
enth, — which throws its shade as it passes, and makes even 
mirth interesting. If Burns had been an Irishmau (and I 
would willingly give up all our claims upon Ossian for 
him), his heart would have been proud of such music, and 
his genius would have made it immortal. 

Another difliculty (which is, however, purely mechanical) 
arises from the irregular structure of many of those airs, 
and the lawless kind of metre which it will in consequence 
be necessary to adapt to them. In these instances the Poet 
must write, not to the eye, but to the ear; and must be 
content to have his verses of that description which Cicero 
mentions, " Quos si cantu spoliaveris nuda remanebit oratio." 
That beautiful Air, "The Twisting of the Rope," which 
has all the romantic character of the Swiss Eanz des Vaches, 



PREFATORY NOTICES. 

is one of those wild and sentimental rakes which it will 
not be very easy to tie down in sober wedlock with Poetry. 
However, notwithstanding allthese difficulties, and the very 
little talent which I can bring to surmount them, the design 
appears to me so truly ifationai, that I shad I'eel much 
pleasure in giving it all the assistance in my power. 

Leicestershire, Feb.. 1807. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



THIRD NUMBER 



pN" presenting the Third Number of this work to 
the Public, the Publisher begs leave to ofter his 
\Wr^ acknowledgments for the very liberal patronage with 
which it has been honoured; and to express a hope that 
the unabated zeal of those who have hitherto so admirably 
conducted it, will enable him to continue it through many 
future Numbers with equal spirit, variety, and taste. The 
stock of popular Melodies is far from being exhausted ; and 
there is still in reserve an abundance of beautiful Airs, 
which call upon Mr. Moore, in the language he so well un- 
derstands, to save them from the oblivion to which they 
are hasteninfir. 



LETTER ON MUSIC, 



THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL. 



PREFIXED TO THE THIRD NUMBER. 



fsIIILE the Publisher of these Melodies very properly 
inscribes them to the Nobility and Gentry of Ireland 
in general, I have much pleasure in selecting one 
from that number, to whom my share of the work is partic- 
ularly dedicated. Though your Ladyship has been so long 
absent from Ireland, I know that you remember it well and 
warmly — that you have not allowed the charm of English 
society, like the taste of the lotus, to produce oblivion of 
your country, but that even the humble tribute which I 
ofier derives its chief claim upon your interest from the 
appeal which it makes to your patriotism. Indeed, absence, 
however fatal to some affections of the heart, rather 
strengthens our love for the land where we were born ; and 
Ireland is the country, of all others, wliicb an exile from 
it must remember with most enthusiasm. Those few darker 



LETTKR ON MUSIC. 

and less amiable traits with wliicli bigotry and misrule have 
stained her character, and which are too apt to disgust us 
upon a nearer intercourse, become softened at a distance, 
or altogether invisible ; and nothing is remembered but lier 
virtues and her misfortunes — the zeal with which she has 
always loved liberty, and the barbarous policy which has 
always withheld it from her — the ease with which lier 
generous spirit might be conciliated, and the cruel inge- 
nuity which has been exerted to "wring her into undutifui- 
ness."* 

It has been often remarked, and oftener felt, that our 
music is the truest of all comments upon our history. The 
tone of detiance, succeeded by the languor of despondency 
— a burst of turbulence dying away into softness — the sor- 
rows of one moment lost in the levity of the next — and all 
that romantic mixture "of mirth and sadness, which is nat- 
urally produced by the efforts of a lively temperamejit to 
shake off", or forget, the wrongs which lie upon it, — such are 
the features of our history and cliaracter, which we find strong- 
ly and faithfully reflected in our music; and there are even 
many airs, which it is difficult to listen to, without recall- 



*A phrase which occurs in a Letter from the Earl of Desmond to 
he Earl of Ormond, in Elizabeth's time, — Scrinia Sacra, as quoted 
by Curry. 



LETTER O'X MUSIC. 

iug some period or event to which their expression seems 
applicable. Sometimes, when the strain is open and spirited, 
yet shaded here and there by a mournful recollection, we can 
fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose,* march- 
ing to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the 
perfidy of Charles and his ministers, and remembering just 
enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of their 
present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take 
us back to the times in which he lived, when our poor 
countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or 
to quit for ever the laud of their birth — like the bird that 
abandons the nest which human touch has violated; and 
in many a song do we hear the last farewell of the exile,f 
mingling sad regret for the ties he leaves at home, with 



* There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of these Irish 
auxiliaries in "The Complete History of the Wars in Scotland under 
Montrose" (3660). See particularly, for the conduct of an Irishman 
at the battle of Aberdeen, chap. vi. p. 49; and for a tribute to the 
bravery of Colonel O'Kyan, chap. vii. 55. Clarendon owns that the 
Marquis of Montrose was indebted for much of his miraculous success 
to the small band of Irish heroes under Macdonnell. 

fThe associations of the Hindu music, though more obvious and 
defined, were far less touching and characteristic. They divided their 
songs according to the seasons of the year, by which (says Sir William 
Jones) "they were able to recall the memory of autumnal merriment, 



LETTKPv ON MUSIC. 

sanguine expectations of the honours thai await him abroad 
— such honouro ae were won on the field of Fontenov, wlicro 
the valour of Irish Catholics turned the fbrti:nc of the day, 
and extorted from George the Second tliat memorable ex- 
clamation, "Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such 
subjects ! " 

Though much has been said of the antiquity of dur 
music, it is certain that our liiiest and most ]><)j'ular airs 
are modern ; and iierha[)S we may look no further than 
the lar,t disgraceful cer.tury for the origin of nmst of those 
wikl and melancholy strains, wliich were at once the off- 
spring and sol'.ice of grief, and were applied to tlie miud 
as music was fornicrly to the body, "decantare loca do- 
lentia." Mr. Pinkerton is of opinion* that none of the 
Scotch popular airs are as old as the middle of the six- 
teenth century ; and though, musical antiquaries refer us. 



at thu tlosc of the liaivest, or of soparatioii ami iiielanclioly tluiiug 
the colJ months," &c. — Asiatic Traiisaclioiis, vol. iii, ou tlic Musical 
Sludes oF the Hindus. — What the Abbe du Bo.i says of the syniphc- 
iiies of LuUy, may be asserted, with much more probability of our bold 
and iuipas^^ionc'd airs — -'elles auroient produit dc ccs cflFcts, qui nous 
paroissent iabuleux dans le rccit des anciens, si on Ics a ,oit fait en- 
tendre h des hoioraes d'uu naturel aussi vif que les .Vtlirniens." — 
Reflex, sur la PciiiUrc, li-c, torn. i. sect. 4.">. 

* Dissertation, T.refixcd to the 2d n.lunie of his Scoilish Hallods. 



LETTER ON MUSIC. 

for some of our melodies, to so early a period as the fifth 
century, I am persuaded that there are few, of a civilized 
description (and by this I mean to exclude all the savage 
Ceanaiis, Cries,* &c.), which can claim quite so ancient a 
date as Mr. Pinkerton allows to the Scotch. But music is 
not the only subject upon which our taste for antiquity is 
rather unreasonably indulged ; and, however heretical it 
may be to dissent from these romantic speculations, I 
cannot help thinking that it is possible to love our country 
very zealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honour 
and happiness, without believing that Irish was the lan- 
guage spoken in Paradise;! that our ancestors were kind 
enough to take the trouble of polishing the Greeks,J or 
that Abaris, the Hyperborean, was a native of the North 
of Ireland. § 

By some of these archaeologists it has been imagined 
that the Irish were early acquainted with counter-point ;|| 



* Of which, some genuine specimens may be found at the end of 
Mr. Walker's Work upon the Irish bards. Mr. Bunting has disfigured 
his last splendid volume by too many of these barbarous rhapsodies. 

f See Advertisement to the Transactions of the Gaelic Society of 
Dublin. 

;];0'Halloran, vol. i. part iv. chap. vii. 

§Id. ib. chap. vi. 

II It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understood 



. LETTER ON MUSIC. 

and they endeavour to support this conjecture by a well- 
known passage in Giraltlus, where he dilates, with such 
elaborate praise, upon the beauties of our national min- 
strelsy. But the terras of this eulogy are too vague, too 
deficient in technical accuracy, to prove that even Giraldns 
himself knew any thing of the artifice of counter-point. 
There are many expressions in the Greek and Latin writers 
which might be cited, with much more plausibility, . to 
prove that the}- understood the arrangement of music in 
parts;* 3-et I believe it is conceded in general by the 



the diesis, or enliarmonic interval. — The Greeks seem to have formed 
their ears to this delicate gradation of sound ; and, whatever difiScul- 
ties or ohjections may He in the way of its practical use, we must 
agree with Mersenne (Preludes de I'Harmonie, quest. 7.), that the 
theory of Music would be imperfect without it; and even in practice 
(as Tosi, among others, very justly remarks, Observations on Florid 
Song, chap. i. sect. 16.), there is no good performer on tlie violin who 
does not make a sensible difference between D sharp and E flat, 
though, from the imperfection of the instnimeiit, they are the same 
notes upon tlie piano-forte. The effect of modulation by enharmonic 
transitions is also very striking and beautiful. 

*The words noi.xvf.ia. and irepo^i^via, in a passage of Plato, and some 
expressions of Cicero in Fragment., lib. ii. de Eepubl., induced the 
Abbe Fraguier to maintain that the ancients had a knowledge of coun- 
ter-point. M. Burette, however, has answered him, I think, satisfic- 
torily. (?].xameM d'un Pas.sa.M de Platon, in the 3d vol. of Histoiro 



LETTER OX MUSIC. 

learned, that, however grand and pathetic the melody of 
the ancients may have been, it was reserved for the inge- 
nuity of modern Science to transmit the "light of Song" 
through the variegating prism of Harmony. 

Indeed, the irregular scale of the early Irish (in which, 
as in the music of Scotland, the interval of the fourth was 
wanting,*) must have furnished but wild and refractory 
subjects to the harmonist. It was onl}" when the invention 



Je TAcad.) M. Iluet is of opinion (Pensees Diverses), that what Cicero 
says of the music of the spheres, in his dream of Scipio, is sufficient to 
prove an acquaintance with harmony; but one of the strongest pas- 
sages, which I recollect, in favour of the supposition, occurs in the 
Treatise attributed to Aristotle — ntpi Ko-iiiou, Moviixr^ 8f o;ms aua 

*2Vnother lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequency of what 
composers call, consecutive fifths: but this is an irregularity which 
can hardly be avoided by persons not very conversant with the rules 
of composition ; indeed, if I may venture to cite my own wild attempts 
in this way, it is a fault which I find myself continually committing, 
and which has sometimes appeared so pleasing to my ear, that I have 
surrendered it to the critic with no small reluctance. May there not 
be a little pedantry in adhering too rigidly to this rule? — I have 
been told that there are instances in Ilaydn, of an undisguised suc- 
cession of fifths; and Mr. Shield, in his Tntroducliun to Ilarniony, 
seems to intimate that Handel has been sometimes guilty of the same 
irregularity. 



LKTTKR ON MUSIC. 

(if Guido began to be known, and the powers of the harp* 
were enlarged by additional strings, that our melodies 
took the sweet character which interests us at present ; 
and while the Scotch persevered in the old mutilation of 
the scale,! onr music became gradually more amenable to 
the laws of liarmony and counter-point. 

*A singular oversigbt occurs in an Essay upon the Irish Harp, by 
Mr. Beauford, which is inserted in the Appendix to Walker's Historical 
Memoirs : — " Tlie Irish (says he) according to Bromton, in the reign 
of Henry II. had two kinds of Harps, 'Hibernici tamen in duobus 
inusici generis instrumentis, quamvis prseeipitem et velocem, suaveni 
tamen et jucundum:' the one greatly bold and quick, the other soft 
and pleasing." — -How a man of Mr. Beauford's learning could so mis- 
take the meaning, and mutilate the grammatical construction of this 
extract, is unaccountable. The following is the passage as I find it 
entire in Bromton; and it requires but little Latin to perceive the in- 
justice which has been done to the words of the old Chronicler: — " Et 
cum Scotia, hujus terrae filia, utatur lyra, tympano et ehoro, ac Wal- 
lia cithara, tubis et choro Hibernici tamen in duobus musici generis 
instrumentis, quamvis prcecipitcm et velocem, siiavem temen et jucundum, 
crispatis modu'.is et iutricatis notulis, efficiunt harmonium," — Hist. 
Angelic. Script, page 1075. I should not have thought this error 
worth remarking, but that the compiler of the Dissertation on the 
Harp, prefixed to Mr. Bunting's last Work, has adopted it implicitly.- 

f The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there are strong 
traits of difference between their melodies and ours. They had for- 
merly the same passion for robbing us of our Saints, and the learned 
Dempster was for this offence called "The Saint Stealer." It was an 



LETTER ON MUSIC. 

Ill profiting, however, by the improvements of the 
moderns, our style still keeps its originality sacred from 
their refinements; and though Carolan had frequent op- 
portunities of liearing the works of Germiniaui and other 
masters, we but rarely find him sacrificing his native 
simplicity to the ambition of their ornaments, or affectation 
of their science. In that curious composition, indeed, 
called his Concerto, it is evident that he laboured to imi- 
tate Corelli; and this union of manners, so very dissimilar, 
produces the same kind of uneasy sensation which is felt 
at a mixture of difierent styles of architecture. In gen- 
eral, however, the artless flow of our music has preserved 
itself free from all tinge of foreign innovation,* and the 



Irishman, I suppose, who, by way of reprisal, stole Dempster's beau- 
tiful wife from him at Pisa. — See this anecdote in the Pinacotheca 
of Erythraeus, part i. p. 25. 

=i=Among other false refinemeuts of the art, our music (with the ex- 
ception perhaps of the air called " Mamma, Mamma," and one or two 
more of the same ludicrous description,) has avoided that puerile mim- 
icry of natural noises, motions, &c., which disgraces so often the works 
of even Handel himself. D'Alembert ought to have had better taste 
than to become the patron of this imitative affectation. — Discours Pre- 
Uminaire de V Encyclopedie. The reader may find some good remarks 
on the subject in Avison upon Musical Expression; a work whith, 
though under the name of Avison, was written, it is said, by Dr. 
Brown. 



LETTER ON MUSIC. 

chief corruptions of which we have to complain arise from 
the unskilful performance of our own itinerant musicians, 
from whom, too frequently, the airs are noted down, en- 
cumbered by their tasteless decorations, and responsible 
for all their ignorant anomalies. Though it be sometimes 
impossible to trace the original strain, yet, in most of them, 
" auri per ramos aura refuiget,"* the pure gold of the 
melody shines through the ungraceful foliage wliich sur- 
rounds it — and the most delicate and difficult duty of a 
compiler is to endeavour, as much as possible, by retrench- 
ing these inelegant superfluities, and collating the various 
methods of playing or singing each air, to -restore the regu- 
larity of its form, and the chaste simplicity of its character. 
I must again observe, that in doubting the antiquity of 
our music, my scepticism extends but to those polished 
specimens of the art, which it is difficult to conceive an- 
terior to the dawn of modern improvement; and that I 
would by no means invalidate the claims of Ireland to 
as early a rank in the annals of minstrelsy, as the most 
zealous antiquary mayvbe enclined to allow her. In addi- 
tion, indeed, to the, power which music must always have 
possessed over the minds of people so ardent and suscepti- 



* Virgil, ^neid, lib. vi. verse 204 



LKTTKR OX MUSIC. 

ble, the stimulus of persecution was not wanting to quicken 
our taste into enthusiasm; the charms of song were enno- 
bled with the glories of martyrdom, and the acts against 
minstrels, in the reigns of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth, were 
as successful, I doubt not, in making my countrymen musi- 
cians, as the penal laws have been in keeping them Catholics. 

With respect to the verses which I have written for these 
Melodies, as they are intended rather to be sung than read, 
I can answer for tlieir sound with somewhat more confidence 
than for their sense. Yet it would be afi'ectation to deny 
that I have given much attention to the task, and that it is 
not through want of zeal or industry, if I unfortunately dis- 
grace the sweet airs of my country, by poetry altogether 
unworthy of tlieir taste, their energy, and their tenderness. 

Though the humble nature of my contributions to this 
work may exempt them from the rigours of literary criticism, 
it was not to be expected that those touches of political feel- 
ing, those tones of national complaint, in which the poetry 
sometimes sj-mpathizes with the music, would be suffered to 
pass without censure or alarm. It has been accordingly 
said, that the tendency of this publication is mischievous,* 



*Sce Letters, under tlie signatures of Timxus, &c., in the Morning 
I'ust, Pilot, and other papers. 



LETTER ON MUSIC. 

and that I have chosen these airs but as a vehicle of dan- 
gerous polities — as fair and precious vessels (to borrow an 
image of St. Augustin),* from which the wine of error 
might be administered. To those who identify nationality 
with treason, and who see, in every effort for Ireland, a 
system of hostility towards England, — to those, too, who, 
nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed b}' the faint- 
est gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their 
darkness — like that Demophon of old, who, when the sun 
shone upon him, shivered f — to such men I shall not deign 
to offer an apology for the warmth of any political senti- 
ment which may occur in the course of these pages. But 
as there are many, among the more wise and tolerant, who, 
with feeling enough to mourn over the wrongs of their 
country, and sense enough to perceive all the danger of not 
redressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least 
degree bold or inflammatory should be avoided in a publica- 
tion of this popular description — I beg of these respected 
persons to believe, that tliere is no one who deprecates more 
sincerely than I do, any appeal to the passions of an igno- 



*"Non acouso verba, quasi vasa electa atque pretiosa; sed vinum 
erroris quod cum eis nobis propinatur." — Lib. i. Confess, chap. 16. 

•j- This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (rpanffo^ocoj) to 
Alexander the Great. — Scxl. Empir. Pyrrh. Hypoth. lib. i. 



LETTER ON MUSIC. 

rant and angiy multitude; but that it is not through that 
gross and inllammable region of society a work of this 
nature could ever have been intended to circulate. It looks 
much higher for its audience and readers: it is found upon 
the piano-fortes of the rich and the educated — of those who 
can afford to have their natural zeal a little stimulated, with- 
out exciting much dread of the excesses into which it maj' 
hurry them ; and of many whose nerves may be, now and then, 
alarmed with advantage, as much more is to be gained by 
tlieir fears than could ever be expected from their justice. 

Having thus adverted to the principal objection which 
has been hitherto made to the poetical part of this work, 
allow me to add a few words in defense of my ingenious 
coadjutor. Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of hav- 
ing spoiled the simplicity of the airs by the chromatic 
richness of his symphonies, and the elaborate variety of his 
harmonies. We might cite the example of the admirable 
Ilaydn, who has sported through all the mazes of musical 
science, in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies; 
but it appears to me, that Sir John Stevenson has brought 
a national feeling to this task, which it would be in vain 
to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious. 

Through many of his own compositions we trace a vein of 
Irish sentiment, which points him out as peculiarly suited 
to catch the spirit of his country's music and, far from agree- 



LETTER ON MUSIC. 

ing with those fastidious critics who think that his sympho- 
nies have nothing kindred with the airs which they intro- 
duce, I would say that, in general, they resemble those illu- 
minated initials of old manuscripts, which are of the same 
character with the writing which follows, though more highly 
coloured and more curiously ornamented. 

In those airs, which are arranged for voices, his skill has 
particularly distinguished itself; and, though it cannot be 
denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the 
the language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a 
favourite strain has been dismissed, as having lost its charm 
of novelty for the year, it returns, in a harmonised shape, 
with new claims upon our interest and attention; and to 
those who study the delicate artifices of composition, the 
construction of the inner parts of these pieces must afford, 
I think, considerable satisfaction. Every voice has an air to 
itself, a flowing succession of notes, which might be heard 
with pleasure, independently of the rest— so artfully has the 
harmonist (if I may thus express it) gavelled the melody, 
distributing an equal portion of its sweetness to every part. 

If your Ladyship's love of Music were not known to me, 
I should not have hazarded so long a letter upon the 
subject; but as, probably, I may have presumed too far 
upon your partiality, the best revenge you can take is to 
write me just as long a letter upon Painting; and I promise 



LETTER ON MUSIC. 

to attend to your theory of the art, with a pleasure only 
surpassed by that which I have so often derived from your 
practice of it. — May the mind which such talents adorn 
continue calm as it is bright, and happy as it is virtuous ! 

Believe me, 3'our Ladyship's 

Grateful Friend and Servant, 

Thomas Moork. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



FOURTH NUMBER. 



f^HIS Number of the Melodies ought to have ap- 
peared ranch earlier; and the writer of the words is 
ashamed to confess, that the delay of its publication 
must be imputed chiefly, if not entirely, to him. lie finds 
it necessary to make this avowal, not only for the purpose 
of removing all blame from the Publisher, but in conse- 
quence of a rumour which has been circulated industriously 
in Dublin, that the Irish Government had interfered to pre- 
vent the continuance of the Work. 

This would be, indeed, a revival of Henry the Eighth's 
enactments against Minstrels, and it is flattering to find 
that so much importance is attached to our compilation, 
even by such persons as the inventors of the report. Bishop 



PREFATORY NOTICES. 

LowTH, it is true, was of opinion, that one song, like the 
Hjmn to Harynodius. would have done more towards rous- 
ing the spirit of the Romans tluxn all the Philippics of 
Cicero. But we live in wiser and less musical times: bal- 
lads have long lost their revolutionary powers; and we 
question if even a " Lillibullero " would produce any very 
serious consequences at present. It is needless, therefore, 
to add, that there is no truth in the report; and we trust 
that whatever belief it obtained was founded rather upon 
the character of the Government than of the Work. 

The Airs of the last Number, though full of originality 
and beauty, were, perhaps, in general, too curiously selected 
to become all at once as popular as, we think, they deserve 
to be. The Public are remarkably reserved towards new 
acquaintances in music, which, perhaps, is one of the rea- 
sons why many modern composers introduce none but old 
friends to their notice. Indeed, it is natural that persons, 
who love music only by association, should be slow in feel- 
ing the charms of a new and strange melody; while those, 
who have a quick sensibility for this enchanting art, will as 
naturally seek and enjoy novelt}-, because in every variety 
of strain they find a fresh combination of ideas; and the 
sound has scarcely reached the ear, before the heart lias 
rapidly translated it into sentiment. After all, however, it 
cannot be denied that the most popular of our National 



PREFATORY NOTICES. 

Airs are also the most beautiful ; and it has been our wish 
in the present Number, to select from those Melodies only 
which have long been listened to and admired. Tiie least 
known in the collection is the Air of '■'■Loves Young 
Dream;" but it is one of those easy, artless strangers, 
whose merit the heart acknowledges instantly. 



T. M. 



Bury Street, St. James's, 
Nov. 1811. 



ADVERTISEMEJ^T 



FIFTH NUMBER. 



*T is but fair to those, who take an interest in 
this Work, to state that it is now very near its 
termination, and that the Sixth Number, which 
shall speedily appear, will, most probably, be the last of 
the series. Three volumes will then have been completed, 
according to the original plan, and the Proprietors desire 
me to say that a List of Subscribers will be published 
with the concluding Number. 

It is not so much from a want of materials, and still 
less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that we have 
adopted the resolution of bringing our task to a close ; 
but we feel so proud, for our country's sake and our own, 
of the interest which this purely Irish Work has excited, 
and so anxious lest a particle of tliat interest should be 
lost by any ill-judged protraction of its existence, that we 
think it wiser to take away the cup from the lip, while 
its flavour is yet, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk 
any longer trial of the charm, or give so much as not to 



PREFATORY NOTICES. 

leave some wish for more. In speaking thus, I allude 
entirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main attrac- 
tion of these Volumes; and though we have still many 
popular and delightful Melodies to produce*, yet it cannot 
be denied that we should soon experience some difficulty 
in equalling the richness and novelty of the earlier num 
hers, for which, as we had the choice of all before us, we 
naturally selected only the most rare and beautiful. The 
Poetry, too, would be sure to 8\'mpathise with the de- 
cline of the Music; and, however feebly mj- words have 
kept jiace with the excellence of the Airs, they would fol- 
low their falliiu/ off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity*. So 
that, altogethci-, both pride and prudence counsel ns to stop, 
Avhile the Work is yet, we believe, flourishing and attract- 
ive, and in the imperial attitude "stantes mori," before we 
incur the charge either of altering for the worse, or what 
is equally unpardonable, continuing too long the same. 

We beg, however, to say, it is only in the event of our 
failing to find Airs as exquisite as most of those we have 
given, that we mean thus to anticipate the natural period 
of dissolution — like those Indians who put their relatives 

* Among these is Savourna DeeUsh, which 1 have hitherto only witli- 
held from the diffidence I feel in treading upon the same ground with Mr. 
Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine Air have taken too strong pos- 
session of all ears and hearts, for me to think of producing any impression 
after him. I suppose, however, I must attempt it for the next Number. 



PREFATORY NOTICF.S. 

to death when they become feeble — and they who wish to 
retard this Euthanasia of the Irisli Melodies, cannot better 
eifect it than by contributing to our collection, not what 
are called curious Airs, for we have abundance of them, 
and they are, in general, only curious, but any real sweet 
and expressive Songs of our Country, which either chance 
or research maj- have brought into their hands. 



T. M. 



3Iayfield Cottage, Ashbourne, 
December, 1818. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



TO THE 

SIXTH NUMBE] 



►N presenting this Sixth Number to the Public as 
our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for 
ever, we shall not answer very confidently for the 
strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may 
not prove, after all, to be only one of those eternal fare- 
wells which a lover lakes of his mistress occasionally. 
Our only motive, .iicieed, for discontinuing the Work was 
a fear that our treasures were nearly exhausted, and an 
unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere seed- 



PREFATORY NOTICES. 

pearl, after the very valuable gems it has been our lot to 
feiring together. The announcement, however, of this in- 
tention, in our Fifth Number, has excited a degree of 
anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only pleasant 
and flattering, but highly useful to us; for the various 
contributions we have received in consequence have en- 
riched our collection with so many choice and beautiful 
Airs, tbat if we keep to our resolution of publishing no 
more, it will certainly be an instance of forbearance and 
self-command, unexampled in the history of poets and 
musicians. To one Gentleman in particular, who has been 
many years resident in England, but who has not forgot, 
among his various pursuits, either the language or the 
melodies of his native country, we beg to offer our best 
thanks for the many interesting communications with 
which he has favoured us; and we trust that he and our 
other friends will not relax in those efforts by which we 
have been so considerably assisted; for, though the work 
must now be considered as defunct, yet — as Keaumur, the 
naturalist, found out the art of making the cicada sing 
after it was dead — it is not impossible that, some time or 
other, we may try a similar experiment upon the Irish 
Melodies. 

T. M. 
Mayjidd, Ashbonnic, 

March, 1815. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



SEVENTH NUMBER. 




F I had consulted only my own judgment, tins Work 
would not have extended beyond the Six Numbers 
already published ; which contain, perhaps, the flower of 
our national melodies, and have attained a rank in public 
favour, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture, 
by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were 
its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in 
reserve, (and it will be seen, I trust, that they are nu- 
merous and valuable,) I would gladly have left to future 
poets to glean, and, with the ritual words " iibi trado," 
would have delivered up the torch into other hands, be- 
fore it had lost much of its light in my own. But the 
call for a continuance of the work has been, as I under- 



PREFATORY NOTICES. 

stand from the Publisher, so general, and we have received 
so many contributions of old and beautiful airs,* the sup- 
pression of which, for the enhancement "of those we have 
published, would resemble too much the policy of the 
Dutch in burning their spices, that I have been persuaded, 
though not without considerable diffidence in my success, 
to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies. 

T. M. 



*One Gentleman, in particular, whose name 1 shall feel happy in being 
allowed to mention, has not only sent us nearly forty ancient airs, but has 
communicated many curious frai;ments of Irish poetry, and some interesting 
traditions current in the country where he resides, illustrated by sketches of 
the romantic scenery to which they refer; all of which, though too late for 
the present Number, will be of infinite service to us in the prosecution of 
our task. 



PREFATORY NOTICES. 



(XEQIO^TIOJT 



THE MARCHIONESS OF HEADFORT, 



TENTH NUMBER. 



, T is with a pleasure, not unmixed with melancholy, 
that I dedicate the last Number of the Irish Melo- 
dies to your Ladyship; nor can I have any doubt that the 
feelings with which you receive the tribute will be of the 
same mingled and saddened tone. To you, who though 
but little beyond the season of childhood, when the earlier 
numbers of this work appeared, lent the aid of your beau- 
tiful voice, and, even then, exquisite feeling for music, to 
the happy circle who met, to sing them together, under 
your father's roof, the gratification, whatever it may be, 
which this humble offering brings, cannot be otherwise 
than darkened by the mournful reflection, how many of 
the voices which then joined with ours are now silent in 
death ! 



PREFATORY NOTICES. 

I am not without hope that, as far as regards the 
grace and spirit of tlie Melodies, you will find this closing 
portion of the work not unworthy of what has preceded 
it. The Sixteen Airs, of which the Number and the Sup- 
plement consist, have been selected from the immense 
mass of Irish music which has been for years past accu- 
mulating in my hands ; and it was from a desire to include 
all that appeared most worthy of preservation, that the 
four supplementary songs which follow this Tenth Number 
have been added. 

Trusting that I may yet again, in remembrance of old 
times, liear our voices together in some of the harmonized 
airs of this Volume, I have the honour to subscribe 
myself. 

Your Ladyship's faithful Friend and Servant, 

Thomas Moore. 

^lopt'rfijn i'n/fage, 
May, 1.834. 



MOORE'S 



American Poems 



ILLUSTRATED BY 



William Richi 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 



PREFACE. 



?^ 



4^1HE Poems suggested to nie by my visit to Bermuda, in 
V!i p the year 1803, as well as by the tour which I made sub- 
sequently, through some parts of North America, have been hith- 
erto very injudiciously arranged; any distinctive character they 
may possess having been distui-bed and confused by their being 
mixed up not only with trifles of a much earlier date, but also 
with some portions of a classical story, in the form of Letters, 
which I had made some progress in before my departure from 
England. In the present edition, this awkward jumble has been 
remedied ; and all the Poems relating to my Transatlantic voy- 
age will be found classed by themselves. As, in like manner, 
the line of route by which I proceeded through some parts of 
the States and the Canadas, has been left hitherto to be traced 
confusedly through a few detached notes, I have thought that, to 
future readers of these poems, some clearer account of tlie course 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

of that journey might not be unacceptable, — together with such 
vestiges as may still linger in my memory of events now fast 
fading into the background of time. 

For the precise date of my departure from England, in the 
Phaeton frigate, I am indebted to the Naval Recollections of 
Captain Scott, then a midshipman of that ship. " We were soon 
ready," says this gentleman, "for sea, and a few days saw Mr. 
!Merry and his suite embarked on board. Mr. !Moore likewise 
took his passage with us on his way to Bermuda. We quitted 
Spithead on the 25th of September (1803), and in a short week 
lay becalmed under the lofty peak of Pico. In this situation, the 
Phaeton is depicted in the frontispiece of Moore's Poems." 

During the voyage, I dined very frequently with the officers 
of the gunroom ; and it was not a little gratifying to me to learn, 
from this gentleman's volume, that the cordial regard these social 
and open-hearted men inspired in me was not wholly unreturned, 
on their part. After mentioning our arrival at Norfolk, in Vir- 
ginia, Captain Scott says, " Mr. and Mrs. Merry left the Phaeton, 
under the usual salute, accompanied by Mr. Moore;" — then, 
adding some kind eomjjliments on the score of talents, &c., he 
concludes with a sentence which it gave me tenfold more pleasure 
to read, — " The gunroom mess witnessed the day of his departure 
Avith genuine sorrow." From Norfolk, after a stay of about ten 
days, under the hospitable roof of the British Consul, Colonel 
Hamilton, I proceeded, in the Driver sloop of war, to Bermuda. 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

There was then on that station another youthful sailor, who 
has since earned for himself a distinguished name among English 
writers of travels, Captain Basil Hall, — then a midshipman on 
board the Leander. In his Fragments of Voyages and Travels, 
this writer has called up some agreeable remiuiscenses of that 
period; in perusing which, — so full of life and reality are his 
sketches, — I found all my own naval recollections brought freshly 
to my mind. The very names of the different ships, then so 
familiar to my ears, — the Leander, the Boston, the Cambrian, — 
transported me back to the season of youth and those Summer 
Isles once more. 

The testimony borne by so competent a witness as Ca})tain 
Hall to the truth of my sketches of the beautiful scenery of 
Bermuda is of far too much value to me, in my capacity of trav- 
eller, to be here omitted by me, however conscious I must feel 
of but ill deserving the praise he lavishes on me, as a poet. 
Not that I pretend to be at all indifferent to such kind trib- 
utes; — on the contrary, those are always the most alive to praise, 
who feel inwardly least confidence in the soundness of their own 
title to it. In the present instance, however, my vanity (for so 
this uneasy feeling is always called) seeks its food in a different 
direction. It is not as a poet I invoke the aid of Captain Hall's 
opinion, but as a traveller and observer; it is not to my inven- 
tion I ask him to bear testimony, but to my matter of fact. 

"The most pleasing and most exact description which I know 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

of Bermuda," says this gentleman, "is to be found in Moore's 
Odes and Epistles, a work published many years ago. The 
reason why his aceount excels in beauty as well as in precision 
that of other men probably is, that the scenes described lie so 
much beyond the scope of ordinary observation in colder cli- 
mates, and the feelings which they excite in the beholder are so 
much higher than those jiroduced by the scenery we have been 
accustomed to look at, that, unless the imagination be- deeply 
drawn upon, and the diction sustained at a correspondent pitch, 
the words alone strike the ear, while the listener's fancy remains 
where it was. In IMoore's account there is not only no exagger- 
ation, but, on the contrary, a wonderful degree of temperance in 
the midst of a feast which, to his rich fancy, must have been 
peculiarly tempting. He has contrived, by a magic peculiarly 
his own, yet without departing from tlie truth, to sketch what 
was before him with a fervor which those who have never been 
on the spot might Mell be excused for setting down as the sport 
of the ]ioet's invention."' 

How truly politic it is in a poet to connect his verse with well- 
known and interesting localities, — to wed his song to scenes 
already invested witli fame, and thus lend it a chance of sharing 
the charm which encircles them, — I have myself, in more tiian 
one instance, very agreeably experienced. Among the memorials 
of this description, which, as ,1 learn with pleasure and pride, 
still keep lue remembered in some of those beautiful regions of 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

the West which I visited, I shall mentioD but one slight in- 
stance, as showing how potently the Genius of the Place may 
lend to song a life and imperishableness to which, in itself, it 
boasts no claim or pretension. The following lines, in one of 
my Bermudian Poems, 

'Twas there, in the shade of the CaLahash Tree, 
With a few who could feel and remember like me, 

still live in memory, I am told, on those fairy shores, connecting 
my name with the picturesque spot they describe, and the noble 
old tree which I believe still adorns it. One of the few treas- 
ures (of any kind) I possess, is a goblet formed of one of the 
fruit shells of tiiis remarkable tree, which was brought from 
Bermuda, a few years since, by Mr. Dudley Costello, and which 
that gentleman, having had it tastefully mounted as a goblet, 
very kindly presented to me; the following words being part of 
the inscription which it bears: — "To Thomas Moore, Esq., this 
cup, formed of a calabash which grew on the tree that bears 
his name, near Walsingham, Bermuda, is inscribed by one 
who," &c. &c. 

From Bermuda I proceeded in the Boston, with my friend 
Captain (now Admiral) J. E. Douglas, to New York, from 
whence, after a short stay, Ave sailed for Norfolk, in Virginia; 
and about the beginning of June, 1804, I set out from that city 
on a tour through part of the States. At Washington, I passed 



POEMS KELATING TO AMERICA. 

some days with the English minister, Mi-. Merry ; and was, by 
him, presented at the levee of the President, Jefferson, whom I 
found sitting with General Dearborn and one or two other offi- 
cers, and iu the same homely costume, comjjrising slippers and 
Connemara stockings, in which Mr. Merry had been received by 
him — much to that formal minister's horror — when waiting upon 
him, in full dress, to deliver his credentials. My single inter- 
view with this remarkable person was of very short duration; 
but to have seen and spoken with the man who drew up the 
Declaration of American Independence was an event not to be 
forgotten. 

At Philadelphia, the society I was chiefly made acquainted 
with, and to which (as the verses addressed to " Delaware's green 
banks" sufficiently testify) I was indebted for some of my most 
agreeable recollections of the United States, consisted entirely of 
persons of the Federalist or Anti-Democratic party. Few and 
transient, too, as had been my opportunities, of judging for my- 
self of the political or social state of the country, my mind was 
left ojjen too much to the influence of the feelings and prejudices 
of those I chiefly consorted with; and, certainly, in no quarter 
was I so sure to find decided hostility, both to the men and the 
principles then dominant throughout the Union, as among officers 
of the British navy, and in the ranks of an angry Federalist 
opposition. For any bias, therefore, that, under such circum- 
stances, my opinions and feelings may be thought to have re- 



POEMS RELATING TO AMEKICA. 

ceived, full allowance, of course, is to be made in appraising the 
weight due to my authority ou the subject. All I can answer 
for, is the perfect sincerity and earnestness of the actual impres- 
sions, whether true or erroneous, under which my Epistles from 
the United States were written ; and so strong, at the time, I 
confess, were those impressions, that it was the only period of 
my past life during which I have found myself at all skeptical 
as to the soundness of that Liberal creed of politics, in the pro- 
fession and advocacy of which I may be almost literally said to 
have begun life, and shall most probably end it. 

Reaching, for the second time, New York, I set out from 
thence on the now familiar and easy enterprise of visiting the 
Falls of Niagara. It is but too true, of all grand objects, 
whether in nature or art, that facility of access to them mucli 
diminishes the feeling of reverence they ought to inspire. Of 
this fault, however, the route to Niagara, at that period — at 
least the portion of it which led through the Genesee country — 
could not justly be accused. The latter part of the journey, 
which lay chiefly through yet but half-cleared wood, we were 
obliged to perform on foot; and a slight accident I met with, in 
the course of our rugged walk, laid me up for some days at 
Buffalo. To the rapid growth, in that wonderful region, of, at 
least, the materials of civilization, — however ultimately they may 
be turned to account, — this flourishing town, which stands on 
Lake Erie, bears most ample testimony. Though little better, 



rOEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

at the time when I visited it, thau a mere village, consisting 
chiefly of huts and wigwams, it is now, by all accounts, a pojKi- 
lous and splendid city, with five or six churches, town hall, 
theatre, and other such appurtenances of a capital. 

In adverting to the comparatively rude state of Buffalo at that 
period, I should be ungrateful were I to omit mentioning, that, 
even then, on the shores of those far lakes, the title of " Poet," — 
however unworthily in that instance bestowed, — bespoke a kind 
and distinguishing welcome for its wearer; and that the Captain 
who commanded the packet in which I crossed Lake Ontario,^ 
in addition to other marks of courtesy, begged, on parting with 
me, to be allowed to decline payment for my passage. 

When we arrived, at length, at the inn, in the neighborhood 
of the Falls, it was too late to think of visiting them that even- 
ing; and I lay awake almost the whole night with the sound 
of the cataract in my ears. The day following I consider as a 
sort of era in my life; and the first glimpse I caught of that 
wonderful cataract gave me a feeling which nothing in this world 
can ever awaken again.^ It was through an opening among the 
trees, as we approached tlie spot where the full view of the Falls 
was to burst upon us, that I cauglit this glimpse of the mighty 
mass of waters folding smootlily over the edge of the precipice; 
and so overwhelming was the notion it gave me of tlie awful 
spectacle I was approaching, that, during the short interval that 
followed, imagination had fiir outrun the reality; and, vast and 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

wonderful as was the scene that then opened upon me, my first 
feeling was that of disappointment. It would have been impos- 
sible, indeed, for any thinj;- real to come up to the vision I had, 
in these few seconds, formed of it; and those awful scriptural 
words, " The fountains of the great deep were broken up," can 
alone give any notion of the vague wonders for which I was 
prepared. 

But, in spite of the start thus got by imagination, the triumph 
of reality was, in the end, but the greater; for the gradual glory 
of the scene that opened upon me soon took possession of my 
whole mind; presenting, from day to day, some new beauty or 
wonder, and, like all that is most sublime in nature or art, 
awakening sad as well as elevating thoughts. I retain in my 
memory but one other dream — for such do events so long past 
appear — which can in any respect be associated with the grand 
vision I have just been describing; and, however different the 
nature of their appeals to the imagination, I should find it diffi- 
cult to say on which occasion I felt most deeply affected, when 
looking on the Falls of Niagara, or when standing by moonlight 
among the ruins of the Coliseum. 

Some changes, I understand, injurious to the beauty of the 
scene, have taken place in the shape of the Falls since the time 
of my visit to them ; and among tliese is the total disappearance, 
by the gradual crumbling away of the rock, of the small leafy 
island which then stood near the edge of the Great Fall, and 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

whose tranquillity and unapproacliableness, in the midst of so 
much turmoil, lent it an interest which I thus tried to avail 
myself of, in a Song of the Spirit of that region:^ 

There, amid the island sedge, 
Just above the cataract's edge, 
Where the foot of living man 
Never trod since time began, 
Lone I sit at close of day, &c. &c. 

Another characteristic feature of the vicinity of the Falls, 
whicli, I understand, no longer exists, was the interesting settle- 
ment of the Tuscarora Indians. With the gallant Brock,'' who 
then commanded at I'ort George, I passed the greater part of 
my time during the few weeks I remained at Niagara; and a 
visit I paid to these Indians, in company with hini and his 
brother officers, on his going to distribute among them the cus- 
tomary presents and prizes, was not the least curious of the 
many new scenes I witnessed. These iMiople received us in all 
their ancient costume. The young men exhibited for our amuse- 
ment in the race, the bat game, and other sports, while the old 
and the women sat in groups nnder the surrounding trees; and 
the whole scene was as picturesque and beautiful as it was new 
to me. It is said that West, the American painter, when he first 
saw the Apollo, at IJome, exclaimed instantly, "A young Indian 
warrior ! " — and, however startling the association may appear, 



POEMS RELATING TO AMEKICA. 

some of the graceful and agile forms -which I saw that day 
among the Tuscaroras were such as would account for its arising 
in the young painter's mind. 

After crossing "the fresh- water ocean" of Ontario, I passed 
down the St. Lawrence to Montreal and Quebec, staying for a 
short time at each of these places ; and this part of my journey, 
as well as my voyage on from Quebec to Halifax, is sufficiently 
traceable through the few pieces of poetry that were suggested to 
me by scenes and events on the way. And here I must again 
venture to avail myself of the valuable testimony of Captain 
Hall to the truth of my descriptions of some of those scenes 
through which his more practiced eye followed me; — taking the 
liberty to omit in my extracts, as far as may be done without 
injury to the style or context, some of that generous surplusage 
of praise in which friendly criticism delights to indulge. 

In speaking of an excursion he had made up the River Ot- 
tawa, — "a stream," he adds, "which has a classical place in every 
one's imagination from Moore's Canadian Boat Song," Captain 
Hall proceeds as follows: — "While the poet above alluded to has 
retained all that is essentially characteristic and pleasing in these 
boat songs, and rejected all that is not so, he has contrived to 
borrow his inspiration from numerous surrounding circumstances, 
presenting nothing remarkable to the dull senses of ordinary 
travellers. Yet these highly poetical images, drawn in this way, 
as it were carelessly and from every hand, he has combined with 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

sucli graphic — I had ahuost said geographical — truth, that the 
effect is great even ujion those who have never, with tlicir own 
eyes, seen the ' Utawa's tide,' uor ' flown down the Rapids,' nor 
heard the 'bell of St. Anne's toll its evening chime;' while the 
same lines give to distant regions, previously consecrated in our 
imagination, a vividness of interest, when viewed on the spot, of 
which it is difficult to say how much is due to the magic of the 
poetry, and how much to the beauty of the real scene." ^ 

While on the subject of the Canadian Boat Song, an anecdote 
connected with that once popular ballad may, for my musical 
readers at least, possess some interest. A few years since, while 
staying in Dublin, I was presented, at his own request, to a gen- 
tleman who told me that his family had in their possession a 
curious relic of my youthful days, — being the first notation I had 
made, in penciling, of the air and words of the Canadian Boat 
Song, while on my way down the St. Lawrence, — and that it 
was their wish I should add my signature to attest the authen- 
ticity of the autograph. I assured him with truth tliat I had 
wholly forgotten even the existence of such a memorandum; 
that it would be as much a curiosity to myself as it could be to 
any one else, and that I should feel thankful to be allowed to 
see it. In a day or two after, my request was complied with, 
and the following is the history of this musical " relic." 

In my passage down the St. Lawrence, I had with me two 
travelling companions, one of whom, named Harkness, the son 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

of a wealtliy Dublin merchant, has been some years dead. To 
tliis young friend, on parting with him, at Quebec, I gave, as a 
keepsake, a volume I had been reading on the way, — Priestley's 
Lectures on History; and it was upon a flyleaf of this volume I 
found I had taken down, in penciling, both the notes and a few 
of the words of the original song by which my own boat glee 
had been suggested. The following is the form of my memo- 
i-andum of the original air: — 






Then follows, as penciled down at the same moment, the first 
verse of my Canadian Boat Song, with air and words as they are 
at present. From all this it will be perceived, that, in my own 
setting of the air, I departed in almost every respect but the time 
from the strain our voyageurs had sung to us, leaving the music 
of the glee nearly as much my own as the words. Yet, how 
strongly impressed I had become with the notion that this was 
the identical air sung by the boatmen, — how closely it linked 
itself in my imagination with the scenes and sounds amidst 
which it had occurred to me, — may be seen by reference to a 



POEMS EELATING TO AMERICA. 

uote appended to the glee as first jiublished, which will be found 
in the following pages. 

To the few desultory and, perhaps, valueless recollections I have 
tlius called up, respecting the contents of our second volume, I 
have only to add, that the heavy storm of censure and criticism, — 
some of it, I fear, but too well deserved, — which, both in America 
and in England, the publication of my "Odes and Epistles" 
drew down upon me, was followed by results which have far 
more than compensated for any pain such attacks at the time 
may have inflicted. In the most formidable of all ray censors, 
at that period, — the great master of the art of criticism, in our 
day, — I have found ever since one of the most cordial and highly 
valued of all my friends; while the good will I have experienced 
from more than one distinguished American sufficiently assures 
me that any injustice I may have done to that land of freemen, 
if not long since wholly forgotten, is now remembered only to 
be forgiven. 

As some consolation to me for the onsets of criticism, I re- 
ceived, shortly after the appearance of my volume, a letter from 
Stockholm, addressed to " the author of Epistles, Odes, and other 
Poems," and informing me that " the Princes, Nobles, and Gen- 
tlemen, who composed the General Chapter of the most Illus- 
trious, Equestrian, Secular, and Chapteral Order of St. Joachim," 
had elected me as a Knight of this Order. Notwithstanding the 
grave and official style of the letter, I regarded it, I own, at 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

first, as a mere ponderous piece of pleasantry ; and even suspected 
that in tlie name of St. "Joacliim" I could detect the low and 
irreverent pun of St. Jokeliim. 

On a little inquiry, however, I learned that there actually ex- 
isted such an order of knighthood; that the title, insignia, &c., 
conferred by it had, in the instances of Lord Nelson, the Duke 
of Bouillon, and Colonel Imhoff, who were all Knights of St. 
Joachim, been authorized by the British court; but that since 
then, this sanction of the order had been withdrawn. Of course, 
to the reduction thus caused in the value of the honor was owing 
its descent in the scale of distinction to " such small deer " of 
Parnassus as myself I wrote a letter, however, full of grateful 
acknowledgment, to Monsieur Hansson, the Vice Chancellor of 
the Order, saying that I was unconscious of having entitled my- 
self, by any public service, to a reward due only to the benefac- 
tors of mankind ; and therefore begged leave most respectfully 
to decline it. 



POEMS KELATING TO AMERICA, 



FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA, 

GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER GENERAL OF THE 
ORDNANCE, CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC. 

My Lord : — It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedi- 
cation to your Lordship without calling to mind the well-known 
reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce 
a eulogium on Hercules. "On Hercules!" said the honest 
Spartan, "who ever thought of blaming Hercules?" In a sim- 
ilar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the 
])anegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task. I shall, 
therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your in- 
dulgence to the very humble tribute of gratitude which I have 
here the honor to present. 
I am, my Lord, 

With every feeling of attachment and respect, 

Your Lordship's very devoted Servant, 

Thomas Moore. 

27, Bury Street, St. James's, 
April 10, 1800. 



POEMS KELATINQ TO AMERICA. 



PREFACE. 



^^^li HE princiiial poems in the following collection were writ- 
^j^ F ten during au absence of fourteen months from Europe. 
Though curiosity was certainly not the motive of my voyage to 
America, yet it happened that the gratification of curiosity was 
the only advantage which I derived from it. Finding myself in 
the country of a new people, whose infancy had promised so 
much, and whose progress to maturity has been an object of such 
interesting speculation, I determined to emjiloy the short period 
of time, which my plan of return to Europe afforded me, in 
travelling through a few of the States, and acquiring some 
knowledge of the inhabitants. 

The impression which my mind received from the character 
and manners of these republicans, suggested the Epistles which 
are written from the city of "Washington and Lake Erie. How 
far I was right, in thus assuming the tone of a satirist against a 
peoijle whom I viewed but as a stranger and a visitor, is a doubt 



POEMS RELATING TO AJMERICA. 

which my feelings did not allow me time to investigate. All I 
presume to answer for is the fidelity of the picture which I have 
given; and though prudence might have dictated gentler lan- 
guage, truth, I think, would have justified severer. 

I went to America with prepossessions by no means unfavor- 
able, and indeed rather indulged in many of those illusive ideas, 
with respect to the purity of the government and the primitive 
happiness of the people, which I had early imbibed in my native 
country, where, unfortunately, discontent at home enhances every 
distant temptation, and the western world has long been looked 
to as a retreat from real or imaginary oj)pression ; as, in short, 
the elysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their 
visions realized, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty 
and repose. In all these flattering expectations I found myself 
completely disappointed, and felt inclined to say to America, as 
Horace says to his mistress, "intentata nites." Brissot, in the 
preface to his travels, observes, that " freedom in that country is 
carried to so high a degree as to border upon a state of nature ; " 
and there certainly is a close approximation to savage life, not 
only in the liberty which they enjoy, but in the violence of party 
spirit and of private animosity which results from it. This illib- 
eral zeal embitters all social intercourse; and, though I scarcely 
could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared to 
me the more jiure and rational, yet I was sorry to observe that, 
in asserting their opinions, they both assume an equal share of 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

intolerance; the Democrats, consistently with their principles, 
exhibiting a vulgarity of rancor, which the Federalists too often 
are so forgetful of their cause as to imitate. 

The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and indeed tiie un- 
polished state of society in general, would neither surprise nor 
disgust if they seemed to flow from that simplicity of character, 
that honest ignorance of the gloss of refinement which may be 
looked for in a new and inexperienced people. But, when we 
find them arrived at maturity in most of the vices, and all the 
pride of civilization, while they arc still so far removed from its 
higher and better characteristics, it is impossible not to feel that 
this youthful decay, this crude anticipation of the natural period 
of corruption, must repress every sanguine hope of the future 
energy and greatness of America. 

I am conscious that, in venturing these few remarks, I have 
said just enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to con- 
vince; for the limits of a preface prevent me from entering into 
a justification of my opinions, and I am committed on the sub- 
ject as effectually as if I had written volumes in their defence. 
My reader, however, is apprised of the very cursory observation 
upon which these opinions are founded, and can easily decide for 
himself upon the degree of attention or confidence which they 
merit. 

With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the fol- 
lowing pages, I know not in what manner to ajwlogize to the 



POEMS KELATING TO AMERICA. 

jiublic for intruding upon tlieir notice such a mass of uncon- 
nected trifles, such a world of epicurean atoms as I liave here 
brought in conflict together. To say that I have been tempted 
by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse which can 
hope for but little indulgence from the critic; yet I own that, 
without this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly 
would never have been submitted to the world. The glare of 
publication is too strong for such imperfect productions: they 
should be shown but to the eye of friendship, in that dim light 
of privacy which is as favorable to poetical as to female beauty, 
and serves as a veil for faults, while it enhances every charm 
which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle oc- 
cupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents 
more active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read 
such trifles, and I most sincerely regret that I have had the 
leisure to write them. 



POEMS BELATING TO AMERICA. 




ADDRESS. 



N presenting this new and revised edition of the present 
Great Work to the American Public, containing the 
Irish ISIelodies, ilhistrated by the matchless pencil of Maclise, 
and the American Poems, now for the first time illustrated in 
any country, the subscriber would most respectfully state that 
the great success of the first edition of this work, has encouraged 
him to still greater efforts in producing more highly-finished 
engravings than those contained in the earlier editions; but, as 
to their merits, he will express no opinion, simply leaving that 
to an enlightened and refined public taste. 

The genuine admirers of Moore will estimate the value of this 
new edition, by the simple llict that it contains, in addition, the 
American poems highly illustrated. Many condemn Moore for 
his sharp criticisms upon our country, as being ungenerous and 
ill-natured, and as showing a great want of acuteness in obser- 
vation; but he, in later years, when Washington Irving was 
visiting him, expressed himself in the fullest and strongest man- 



POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. 

ner, on the subject of his writings on America, as being the 
greatest sin of his early life. 

To the press of the country, I return my most sincere thanks 
for the invariably kintl and very liberal notices, with which 
they have been pleased to greet it, thus assisting in bringing the 
work prominently before the public, and thereby making it a 
complete success. And to all my friends and patrons, who have 
taken a deep interest in the successful termination of my many 
years' " labor of love," 

I tender my warmest thanks. 

William Eiches. 









^Wttt Moon ! if, like Crotona's sage,° 

By any spell my liand could dare 
To make thy disk its ample page, 

And -write my thoughts, my wishes there; 
How many a friend, whose careless eye 
Now wanders o'er that starry sky, 
Should smile, upon thy orb to meet 
The recollection, kind and sweet, 



wm 




J^M 




The reverips of fond regret, 

The promise, never to forget, 

And all my heart and soul would send 

To many a dear-lov'd, distant friend. 

How little, when we parted last, 
I thought those pleasant times were past, 
Forever past, when brilliant joy 
Was all my vacant heart's employ : 
When, fresh from mirth to mirth again, 

We thought the rapid hours too few ; 
Our only use for knowledge then 

To gather bliss from all we knew. 
Delicious days of whim and soul ! 

When, minglingjore and laugh together. 
We lean'd the book on Pleasure's bowl. 

And tnrn'd the leaf with Folly's feather. 
Little I thought that all were fled, 
That, ere tliat summer's bloom was shed, 
My eye should see the sail unfurl 'd 
That wafts me to the western world. 

And yet, 'twas time; — in youth's sweet days. 
To cool that season's glowing rays, 



v3| 



f 





MM 




=^4^1? 



Tlie heart a wiiile, with wanton wing, 
May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring; 
But, if it wait for winter's breeze, 
The spring will chill, the heart will freeze. 
And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope, 

0, she awak'd such happy dreams. 
And gave my soul such tempting scope 

For all its dearest, fondest schemes. 
That not Verona's child of song, 

When flying from the Phrygian shore, 
With lighter heart could bound along. 

Or pant to be a wanderer more ! ' 

Even now delusive hope will steal 
Amid the dark regrets I feel, 
Soothing, as yonder placid beam 

Pursues the murmurers of the deep. 
And lights them with consoling gleam, 

And smiles them into tranquil sleep. 
0, such a blessed night as this, 

I often think, if friends were near. 
How we should feel, and gaze with bliss 

Upon the moon-bright scenery here! 



/qUE! 



,^W'^ 



The sea is 'like a silvery lake, 

AikI, o'er its calm the vessel glides 
Gently, as if it fear'd to wake 

The slumber of the silent tides. 
The only envious cloud that lowers 

Hath hung its shade on Pico's height 
Where dimly, 'mid the dusk, he towers, 

And scowling at this heav'n of light, 
Exults to see the infant storm 
Cling darkly round his giant form ! 

Now, could I range those verdant isles, 

Invisible, at this soft hour. 
And see the looks, the beaming smi 

That brighten many an orange bowei 
And could I lift each pious veil, 

And see the blushing cheek it shades 
0, I should have full many a tale. 

To tell of young Azorian maids." 

Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps, 
Some lover (not too idly blest, 

Like those, who in their ladies' laps 
May cradle every wish to rest,) 




m 



\§=E] 




Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul, 

Those madrigals, of breath divine. 
Which Camoen's harp from Rapture stole 

And gave, all glowing warm, to thine."' 
0, could the lover leai'n from thee, 

And breathe them with thy graceful tone. 
Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy 

Would make the coldest nymph liis own. 

But hark !— the boatswain's pipings tell 
'T is time to bid my dream farewell : 
Eight bells — the middle watch is set; 
Good niglit, my StrangPord! — ne'er forget 
That, fir beyond the western sea 
Is one, whose heart remembers thee. 



---^'if9SMMS^^:'^ — 




wm 



^) 



%^ 



v^^ 



I leflected, liow soon in the cup of Desin' 
The peail of the soul may be melted 
away ; 
How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire 
We mheiit from heav'n, may be quench'd 
in the clay ; 

And I pi a) d of that Spirit who lighted the 
flame, 
That Pleasure no more might its purity dim; v\^'. 
So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same, 
'v^ I might give back the boon I had borrow'd 
fiom Him. 



How blest WIS the thought! it a})pear'd as if 
Hea\en 

Hid ihe^idy an opening to Paradise shown; 
As if, passion ill chasten'd and error forgiven, 

M} heait then began to be purely its own. 

fh-yT- look d to the west, and the beautiful sky 

WIikIi morning had clouded, was clouded no more 
"0, thus," I exclaimed, "may a heavenly eye 

'Shed liii;ht on the soul that was darken'd before." 




;?C^^^€^?-s^'T^ 




M^^-?^J=^52^^V^-.^ 





, when I see that wing, so bi 
Grow languid with a moment's Hig 
Attempt the paths of air in vain, 
And sink into tlie waves again; 
Alas! the tiattering pride is o'er; 
Like thee, a while, the soul may soa 
But erring man must blush to thin 
Like thee, again the soul may smk, 

O Virtue ! when thy clime I seel 
Let not ray spirit's flight be weak; 
Let me not, like this feeble thing. 
With brine still dropping from its w 
Just sparkle in the solar glow 
And plunge again to depths below ; 
But, when I leave the grosser thron 
With whom my soul hath dwelt so 
oe, in that aspiring day, 
every lingering stain away, 
panting for thy purer air, 
at once and fix me there. 



liV/ ^^} 






%X^ sweet to behold, wlien tlie billows ok ^ , " ' / 

\ sleeping, ~^y'^\ '7' 

a 1-111 • (^'' 'i'->^ 

borne gay-colour d bark moving grace- H-^I,'M\\ 

fully by; 





^/fV; 







No damp on her deck but the even-tide'b wet|) _,iVV^£Z. 
ing, ^ ^^^ 

No bieath in her &ailb but the summer-wind ^ l\ 

B:gh. %\^ 

Yet who would not turn, with a fonder emotion 
To gaze on the life-boat, though rugged and 
worn. 

Which often hath wafted, o'er hills of the ocean, 
The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn ' 

Oh ! grant that of those who in life's sunny 

slumber 
Around us like summer-barks idly have 

play'd. 
When storms are abroad we may find in the 

fe-boat, to fly to our 





A warm tear gusli'd, the wintry air 
Congeal'd it as it flow'd away: 

All night it lay an ice-drop there, 
At morn it glitter'd in the ray! 

An angel, wandering from her sphere 
Who saw this bright, this frozen 

To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear, 
And hung it on her diadem ! 







And, mild as evening's matron hour, ^ 
Looks on the faintly shutting flowei , 
A mother saw our eyelids close, 
And bless'd them into pure repose ; 
Then, haply if a week, a day, 
I linger'd from that home away. 
How long the little absence seem'd ! 
How bright the look of welcome beam'd, 
As mute you heard, with eager smile, 
My tales of all that pass'd the while ! 

Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea 
Rolls wide between that home and me ; 
The moon may thrice be born and die, 
Ere ev'n that seal can reach mine eye, 
Which used so oft, so quick to come. 
Still breathing all the breath of home,— 
As if, still fresh, the cordial air 
From lips belov'd were lingering there. ^te». 
But now, alas, — far different fate ! 
It comes o'er ocean, slow and late, ^ 

When the dear hand that fill'd its fold \ _^^^ 
With words of sweetness may lie cold. ^^ ^'KSiL 




fe 



^ 



1 




But hence that gloomy thought! at k\st, |C2:; 
Belov'cl Kate, the waves are past: 
I tread on earth securely now, 
And the green cedar's living boug 
Breathes more refreshment to my eyes 
Than could a Claude's divinest dyes. 
At length I touch the happy sphere 
To liberty and virtue dear, 
Where man looks up, and, proud to claim 
His rank withm the social frame, 

a grand system round him roll. 
Himself its centre, sun, and soul ! 
Far from the shocks of Europe — far 
From every wild, elliptic star 
That, shooting with a devious fire. 
Kindled by heaven's avenging ire, 
So oft hath into chaos hurl'd 
The systems of the ancient world. 

Tlie warrior here, in arms no more 
Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er. 
And glorying in the freedom won 






Foi health and shiine, foi sue anel ^on, 
Smiles on the dusky webs that Iiide 
His sleeping swoid s leraembti d piide 
While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toi 
Walks o'ei the fiee, unlorded soil, 
Effacing with her splendid share 
The drops that war had sprinkled there, 
Thrice happy land ! where he wdio flies 
From the dark ills of other skies, 
From scorn, or want's unnerving woes, 
May shelter him in proud repose : 
Hope sings along the yellow sand 
His welcome to a patriot land ; 
The mighty wood, with pomp, receives 
The stranger in its world of leaves, 
Which soon their barren glory yield 
To the warm shed and cultur'd field; 
A nd he, who came, of all bereft. 
To whom malignant fate had left 
Nor home nor friends nor country dear. 
Finds home and friends and country hereT' 




T 







Such IS the picture, warmly such 
That Fancy long, with floiiil touch, 
Had painted to iny sanguine eye 
Of man's new world of liberty. 
0, ask me not, if Truth have yet 
Her seal on Fancy's promise set; 
If ev'n a glimpse my eyes behold 
Of that imagin'd age of gold; — 
Alas, not yet one gleaming trace!'* 
Never did youth, who lov'd a face 
As sketch'd by some fond pencil's skill 
And made by fancy lovelier still, 
iShrink back with more of sad surprise 
When the live model met his eyes, 
Tlian I have felt, in sorrow felt, 
To find a dream on which I 've dwelt 
From boyhood's hour, thus fade and flee 
At touch of stern reality ! 

But, courage, yet, my wavering heart! 
Blame not the temple's meanest part," 
Till thou hast traced the fabric o'er: — ,'; 
As yet, we have beheld no more tu' 






Tlian just the .porch to Freedom's fane 

And, though a sable spot may stain 

The vestibule, 'tis wrong, 'tis sin 

To doubt the godhead reigns within ! \| 

So here I pause — and now, my Kate, 

To you, and those dear friends, whose fate 

Touches more near this homesick soul 

Than all the Powers from pole to pole, 

One word at parting, — in the tone 

Most sweet to you, and most my own. 

The simple strain I send you here,'" 

Wild though it be, would charm youi eai 

Did you but know the trance of thought 

In which my mind its numbers caught 

'T was one of those half-waking dieam 

That haunt me oft, when music seems 

To bear my soul in sound along, vi 

And turn its feelings all to song. 

I thought of home, the according U} s 

Game full of dreams of other days «Wn- '^^ / f / 



-^E^-^ 




Frebhly in each succeeding note 
I found some young remembrance float. 
Till following, as a clue, that strain, 
I wander'd back to home again. 

0, love the song, and let it oft 
Live on your lip, in accents soft. 
Say that it tells you, simply well, 
All I have bid its wild notes tell, — 
Of Memory's dream, of thoughts that 
Glow with the light of joy that's set. 
And all the fond heart keeps in store 
Of friends and scenes beheld no more. 
And now, adieu! — this artless air, 
With a few rhymes, in transcript fair, 
Are all the gifts I yet can boast 
To send you from Columbia's coast; 
But when the sun, with warmer smile, 
Shall light me to my destin'd isle," 
You shall have many a cowslip bell 
Where Ariel slept, and many a shell, 
In which that gentle spirit drew ( 

From honey flowers the morning dew. ^iJ\l^f/ 





■■^rf^^^^^^&lfe^' 



,'kvri|';;j 



:il -i 



g^gaUiul. ii'% ^^if^ 



THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 



"They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a 
girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was 
never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in Ins ra\ 
ings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Hwamp it 
is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had 
died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morassesj — 
Anon. 

"La Poesie a ses monstres corame la nature." — D'Alembert. 

''(LiIWM made her a grave, too cold and damp 

" For a soul so warm and true ; 
"And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,' 
" Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp, 

"She paddles her white canoe. 

"And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, 
"And her paddle I soon shall hear; 
Long and loving our life shall be, 
And Lll hide the maid in a cypress tree, 
" When the footstep of death is near." 








'UfM 




^-^^^«^ 




Awi} to the Di'^inil R\\ xmp he speed-, — 

His path was rugged and feore 
Thiouoh tangled junipei beds of leeds 
Through many a len, where tlie serpent feeds, 

And man never trod before. 









And, when on the eaitli 1ip ^ui 

It -^lumbei liib pyelicK knew 
He lay, wlicie tlip deadly Mne doth weep 
Itb venomous, tear and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew ! 

And near him the she wolf stirr'd the brake. 
And the copper snake breath'd in his ear, 
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 
" 0, when shall I see the dusky Lake, 
"And the white canoe of my dear?" 

He saw the Lake, and the meteor bright 

Quick over its surface play'd — 
" Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!" 
And the dinr shore echoed, for many a night. 

The name of the death-cold maid. 

Till he hollow d a boat of the birchen bark, 

Which till led him off from shore; 
Fai far he follow'd the meteor spark, 
Tlie wind was high and the clouds were dark, 
And the boat return 'd no more. 





Tilts' rox, 'Jittmuda Is/iinds. 



5l0 X\\t ^ttavdiioncjsjs Joivagcv ssi goncfjall. %i 



sDHidUl where'er you roam, wliatever land 
Wooes the bright touches of that artist hand ; 
Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads. 
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads; 
Enamour'd catch the mellow hues that sleep, 
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep; 
\^0r musmg o'er the Lake, at day's decline, 
Milk the last shadow on that holy shrine," 



:t^ft 



/i 



sr rMhMp J^ 




'% 



Where, many a night, the shade of Tell com- 
plains 
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains; 
0, lay the pencil for a moment by. 
Turn from the canvas that creative eye, 
And let its splendor, like the morning ray 
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay. 




Yet, Lady, no — for song so rude as mine, 
Chase not the wonders of your art divine; 
Still, radiant eye, upon the canvas dwell; 
Still, magic finger, weave your potent spell , 
And, while 1 sing the animated smiles 
Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles, 
0, might the song awake some bright design, 
Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy Ime, 
Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought 
On painting's mirror so divinely caught; 
While wondering Genius, as he lean'd to tiace 
The famt conception kindling into grace. 
Might love my numbers for the spark they thiew /^^.^ 
An<l bless the lay that lent a charm to you ( ^ f [' 

\^^^ Say, have you ne'er, in nightly vision, stray d i^A 
To those pure isles of ever-blooming shade, ^ {/>^^^ 



^- 



.$LA,i^ 





Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, plac'd 

For hapjiy spirits in th' Atlantic waste?" 

There listening, while, from earth, each breeze that 

came 
Brought echoes of their own undying fame, 
In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song, 
They charm'd their lapse of nightless hours along :- 
Nor yet in song, that mortal ear might suit, 
For every spirit was itself a lute. 
Where Virtue waken'd, with elysian breeze, 
Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies. 



Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland 
Floated our bark to this enchanted land, — 
These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown. 
Like studs of emerald o'er a silver zone, — - 
Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave 
To blessed arbors o'er the western wave. 
Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime. 
Of bowers ethereal, and the Spirit's clime. 

Bright rose the morning, every wave was still,///! 
When the first perfume of a cedar hdl T , 

^=f\;^ Sweetly awak'd us, and, with smiling charms, 



^ 




The fairy harbor woo'd us to its arm 



Gently we stole, before the whispering wind, 
Through plaintain shades, that round, like awnings, 

twin'd. 
And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails. 
Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales; 
While, far reflected o'er the wave serene, 
Each wooded island shed so soft a green 
That the enamour'd keel, with whispering play, 
Through liquid herbage seem'd to steal its way. 



Never did weary bark more gladly glide, 
Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide! 
Along the margin, many a shining dome, 
White as the palace of a Lapland gnome, 
Brighten'd the wave; — in every myrtle grove 
Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love. 
Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade; 
And, while the foliage interposing play'd. 
Lending the scene an ever-changing grace, 
Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace 
The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch," 
And dream of temples, till her kindling torch 
Lighted me back to all the glorious days 
Of Attic genius ; and I seem'd to gaze 
\0n marble, from the rich Pentelic mount, 
Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount. 





Then tliought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all 
The spirit race that come at poet's call, 
Delicate Ariel ! who, in brighter hours, 
Liv'd on the perfume of those honeyed bowers, 
In velvet buds, at evening, lov'd to lie, 
And win with music every rose's sigh. 
Though weak the magic of my humble strain 
To charm your spirit from its orb again, 
Yet, 0, for her, beneath whose smile I sing. 
For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing 
Were dimm'd or ruffled by a wintry sky, 
Could smooth its feather and relume its dye,) 
Descend a moment from your starry sphere. 
And, if the lime-tree grove that once was dear, 
The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill, 
The sparkling grotto can delight you still, 
cull their choicest tints, their softest light. 
Weave all these spells into one dream of night. 
And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies, 
Slied the warm picture o'er her mental eyes , 
Take for the task her own creative spells, 
And brightly show what song but faintly tell« 





^^ 

She open'd, with her golden key, 
The casket where my memory lays, 

Those gems of classic poesy. 

Which time has sav'd from ancient days. 

Take one of these, to Lais sung, — 
I wrote it while my hammock swung, 
As one might write a dissertation 
Upon "Suspended Animation!" 

Sweet" is your kiss, my Lais dear. 
But, with that kiss I feel a tear 
Gush from your eyelids, such as start 
When those who 've dearly lov'd must part. 
Sadly you lean your head to mine. 
And mute -those arms around me twine, 
Your hair adown my bosom spread, 
All glittering with the tears you shed. 
In vain I 've kissed those lids of snow, 
For still, like ceaseless founts they flow, 
Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet. 
Why is it thus? do, tell me, sweet! 
Ah, Lais! are my bodings right? 
Am I to lose you? is to-night 

Our last go, false to heaven and me! 

Your very tears are treachery. 





t^UdHt wbile in air I floating hung, 

Such was the strain, Morgante mio! 
The muse and I together sung, 

With Boreas to make out the trio. 
But, bless the Httle fairy isle! 

How sweetly after all our ills, 
We saw the sunny morning smile 

Serenely o'er its fragrant hills; 
And felt the pure, delicious flow 
Of airs, that round this Eden blow 
Freshly as ev'n the gales that come 
O'er our own healthy hills at home. 

Could you but view the scenery fair, 

That now beneath my window lies. 
You 'd think, that nature lavish'd there 

Her purest wave, her softest ski 
To make a heaven for love to sigh in, 
For bards to live and saints to die in. 
Close to my wooded bank below. 

In glassy calm the waters sleep. 
And to the sunbeam proudly show 

The coial locks they love to steep."' 
The faulting breeze of morning fa 

The (how-y boat moves slowly past. 
And I can almost touch its sails 



/< 




The noontide sun a splendor pours 
That hghts up all these leafy shores; 
While his own heav'n, its clouds and beams, 

So pictured in the waters lie, 
That each small bark, in passing, seems 

To float along a burning sky. 



.C/ZX 



^ 



for the pinnace lent to thee," 

Blest dreamer, who, in vision b*right, 
Didst sail o'er heaven's solar sea 

And touch at all its isles of light. 
Sweet Venus, what a clime he found 
Within thy orb's ambrosial round !^' 
There spring the breezes, rich and warm, 

That sigh around thy vesper car ; 
And angels dwell, so pure of form 

That each appears a living star.'° 
These are the sprites, celestial queen ! 

Thou sendest nightly to the bed 
Of her I love, with touch unseen 

Tiiy planet's brightening tints to shed ; 
To lend that eye a light still clearer. 

To give that cheek one rose blush more, 
And bid that blushing lip be dearer. 

Which had been all too dear before. 



But, whither means the muse to roam? 
'T is time to call the wanderer home. 





Who could have thought the nymph would perch 
Up in the clouds with Father Kircher? 
So, health and love to all your mansion ! 

Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom in, 
The flow of heart, the soul's expansion, 

Mirth and song, your board illumine. 
At all your feasts, remember too, 

When cup'5 aie spaikling to the bum, 
That heie ib one who dunks to you. 
And 0, as waunly dunk to huu 




^ 



M 
'^^ 



holy calm profound 
Vln awe like this, that ne'er was give: 
To pleasure's thrill 
'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, 
And the soul, listening to the sound, 
Lies mute and still. 

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, 

Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow 

In the cold deep, 
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow 
No more shall wake the heart or eye, 

But all must sleep. 



Well ! — there are some, thou stormy 
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure; 

0, most to him. 
Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure, 
Nor left one honey drop to shed 

Round sorrow's brim. 

Yes — he can smile serene at death : 

Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping 

Of friends who love him ; 
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping 
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath 

No more shall move him. 



3^^j^ 



.^^^: 




vz 



m\0 U fa. 



NEA Tvpai'va. EuRiPiD. Medea, v. 967. 

plHU, tempt me not to love again, 

There was a time when love was sweet ; 
Dear Nea! had I known thee then, 

Our souls had not been slow to meet. 
But, 0, this weary heart hath run, 

So many a time, the rounds of pain. 
Not ev'n for thee, thou lovely one, 

Would I endure such pangs again. 

If there be climes, where never yet 
The jmnt of beauty's foot was set. 
Where man may pass his loveless nights, 
Unfever'd by her false delights. 
Thither my wounded soul would fly, 
Where rosy cheek or radiant eye 
Should bring no more their bliss, or pain 




m) 


u 


Nor fetter me to 




^ 


^. ^^ 




= '^■y^ 




fil,'B!!--...iSr 





^^ 



Dear absent girl ! whose eyes of light, 

Though little priz'd when all my own, 
Now float before me, soft*and bright 

As when they first enamouring shone, - 
What hours and days have I seen glide. 
While fix'd, enchanted, by thy side. 
Unmindful of the fleeting day, 
I 've let life's dream dissolve away. 
bloom of youth profusely shed ! 
moments! simply, vainly sped. 
Yet sweetly too — for Love perfum'd 
The flame which thus my life consum'd; 
And brilliant was the chain of flowers, 
In which he led my victim hours. 



^ 



Say, Nea, say, couklst thou, like her, 
When warm to feel and quick to err, 
Of loving fond, of roving fonder, 
This thoughtless soul might wish to wander, - 
Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim. 

Endearing still, reproaching never. 
Till ev'n this heart should burn with shame, 

And be thy own more fix'd than ever? 




1 



vr 



No, no — on earth there 's only one (f^ 

Coukl bind such faithless folly fast , 

And sure on ear.th but one alone 

Could make such virtue false at last ' 

Nea, the heart which she forsook, 

For thee were but a worthless shrine — 
Go, lovely girl, that angel look 

Must thrill a soul more pure than mine. 
0, thou shalt be all else to me, 

That heart can tell or tongue can feign , 
I '11 praise, admire, and worship thee. 

But must not, dare not, love again. 




t^cfe^^ 





That little Bay, where turning in 
From ocean's rude and angry din, 

As lovers steal to bliss. 
The billows kiss the shore, and then 
Flow back into the deep again. 

As though they did not kiss. 

Remember, o'er its circling flood 

111 wnat, a aangero"« dream we stood— 

The silent sea before us. 
Around us, all the gloom of grove, 
That ever lent its shade to love. 

No eye but heaven's o'er us ! 

^^-^ I saw you blush, you felt me tremble. 
In vain would formal art dissemble 

All we then look'd and thought; 
'T was more than tongue could dare rev 
'T was ev'ry thing that young hearts feel 

By Love and Nature taught. 



I stooj^'d to cull, with faltering hand, 
A shell that, on the golden sand. 

Before us faintly gleam'd; 
I trembling rais'd it, and when you 
Had kiss'd the shell, I kiss'd it too — 

How sweet, how wrong it seem'dJ 



r/^ 



"^ ^■ 



34ti 



r 



1 




^>-".:-^ 





^0U read it in these spell-bound eyes, 
And there alone should love be read ; 

You hear me say it all in sighs, 

And thus alone should love be said. 



Then dread no more; I will not speak; 

Although my heart to anguish thrill, 
I'll spare the burning of your cheek, 

And look it ill m il- ik , sti" 



> 







Heard you tlie wish I dar'd to name, 
To murmur on that luckless night, 

When passion broke the bonds of shame. 
And love grew madness in your sight? 

Divinely through the graceful dance. 
You seem'd to float in silent song. 

Bending to earth that sunny glance. 
As if to light your ste 




0, how could others dare to touch 

That hallow'd form with hand so free. 

When but to look was bliss too much, 
Too rare for all but love and me ! 

With smiling eyes, that little thought 
How fatal were the beams they threw, 

My trembling hands you lightly caught. 
And round me, like a spirit, flew. 

Heedless of all, but you alone, — 

And you, at least, should not condemn, 

If, when such eyes before me shone. 
My soul forgot all eyes but them, — 



/^ 




I dar'd to whisper passion's vow, — 

For love had ev'n of thought bereft me, — 

Nay, half way bent to kiss that brow, 
But, with a bound, you blushing left me. 

Forget, forget that night's offence, 

Forgive it, if, alas! you can; 
'T was love, 't was passion — soul and sense — 

'Twas all that's best and worst in man. 

That moment, did th' assembled eyes 
Of heaven and earth my madness view, 

I should have seen, through earth and skies, 
But you alone — but only you. 



Did not a frown from you repi'ove, 
Myriads of eyes to me were none ; 

Enough for me to win your love. 
And die upon the spot, when won 




-' A while I fiom the lattice gaz > 
["Upon that still and moonlight deep, 



■J^ 




> H \ ^i^Betoie I laid me down to 

%-^M> With ibles like floating gardens rais d, 
Y t Foi Aiiel theie his sports to keep; 
Ih ' <}y While, gliding 'twivt their leafy shore 
I ^'5. The lone night fisher plied his oars. 



I felt, — so strongly fancy's power 
Came o'er me in that witching hour, — 
As if the whole bright scenery there 

Were lighted by a Grecian sky. 
And I then breath'd the blissful air 

That late had thrill'd to Sappho's sigh. 



Thus, waking, dreamt I, — and when Sleep 

Came o'er my sense, the dream went on 
Nor, through her curtain dim and deep, 

Hath ever lovelier vision shone. 
I thought that, all enrapt, I stray'd 

Through that serene, luxurious shade," 
Where Epicurus taught the Loves 

To polish virtue's native brightness, — 






) As pearls, we're told, that fondling dove'^ 

Have play'd with, wear a smoother- ^IJ>\ 
whiteness/' ^^ 

yNj^.y 'Twas one of those delicious niglits 

So common in the climes of Greece, ^i 
When day withdraws but half its lights, Jv, 

And all is moonshine, balm, and peace. 
And thou wert there, my own belov'd. 
And by thy side I fondly rov'd 
Through many a temple's reverend gloom. 
And many a bower's seductive bloom. 
Where Beauty learn'd what Wisdom taught, ( 
And sages sigh'd and lovers thought; 



,-;C^ Where schoolmen conn'd no maxims stern 
^"^ But all was form'd to soothe or move, 

To make the dullest love to learn. 
To make the coldest learn to love. 



And now the fairy pathway seem'd 
To lead us through enchanted ground, 

Where all that bard has ever dream'd 
Of love or luxury bloom'd around. 

0, 't was a bright, bewildering scene, 

Along the alley's deepening green 



t 



mk 




Soft lamps, tliat liung like burning flowcit 
L L'^ And scented and illum'd the boweis, "" 
[^ K^Seeni'd, a^ to liiin, who darkling io\( 
'Amid the lone Hercynian groves, 
Ajjpear those countless birds of light, 

That sparkle m the leaves at night, 

And fiom their wings diffuse a ray- 
Along the tia\eller's weary. way/' 
'T was light of that mysterious kind, 

Through which the soul perchance may roam. 
When it has left this world behind, 
f'~\ And gone to seek its heavenly home. 
i^r^ And, Nea, thou wert by my side, 
^|-^ Through all this heav'nward path my guide.^ 




But, lo, as wand'ring thus we rang'd 
That upward path, the vision chang'd; 
And now, methought, we stole along 

Thiough halls of more voluptuous glory 
Ilim e\ei liv'd in Teian song, 

Oi wanton'd in Milesian story." 
And 11} mphs were there, whose very eyes 
Seem d soften 'd o'er with breath of siahs; 







S)^: 



1^ 





Whose ev'ry ringlet, as it wreath'cl, .^ 
A mute appeal to passion breath'd. (§ 
Some flew, with amber cups, around, 

Pouring the flowery wines of Crete;'"'' 
And, as they pass'd with youthful bound, 

The onyx shone beneath their feet." 
While others, waving arms of snow 

Intwin'd by snakes of burnish'd gold," 
And showing charms, as loath to show, 

Through many a thin Tarentian fold," 
Glided among the festal throng 
Bearing rich urns of flowers along. 
Where roses lay, in languor breathing. 
And the young bee grajw," round them wreathint 
Hung on their blushes warm and meek, 
Like curls ujwn a rosy cheek. 

0, Nea! why did morning break 

The spell that thus divinely bound me? 

Why did I wake? how could I wake 
With thee my own and heaven around : 



m ( 



i 




'wtW — peace to thy heart, though anotliei''s it be, 
And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me ! 
To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves,"" 
Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves, 
And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet 
Their illurements forgive and their splendor forget. 



w 



ift (\ 



Farewell to Bermuda,*' and long may the bloom 

Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume; 

May spring to eternity hallow the shade. 

Where Ariel has warbled and Waller*' has stray'd. 

And thou — when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam 

Througli the lime-cover'd alley that leads to thy home. 

Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done, 

And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun, 

I have led thee along, and have told by the way 

What my heart all the night had been burning to say — ■ 

0, think of tlie past — give a sigh to those times, 

And a blessing for me to that alley of limes. 









¥'!i ^^ I ^vere yonder wave, my dear, 

And thou the isle it clasps around, 
I would not let a foot come near 
My land of bliss, my fairy giound. 

If I were yonder couch of gold. 

And tliou the peail within it plac'd, 

I would not let an eye behold 

The sacred gem my arms embrac'd. 

If I were yonder orange tree, 

And thou the blossom blooming there, 
I would not yield a breath of thee 

To scent the most imjjloring air. 

0, bend not o'er the water's brink, 
Give not the wave that odorous sigl 

Nor let its burning mirror drink 
The soft reflection of thine eye. 

That glossy hair, that glowing cheek, 
So pictur'd in the waters seem, 

That I could gladly plunge to seek 
Thy image in the glassy stream. 

Blest fate ! at once my cliilly grave 
And nuptial bed that stream might b 







I '11 wed thee in its mimic wave. 
And die upon the shade of thee. 




:r^^=.^.^^' 



^^n;^' 




'U / vliljeli<iU the leafy mangrove, bendi 
0\\ the waters blue and bright, 
Like Nea's silky lashes, lending 
Shadow to her eyes of light. 

0, my belov'd! where'er I turn. 

Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes 

In every star thy glances burn ; 
Thy blush on every flow'ret lies. 

Nor find I in creation aught 
Of bright, or beautiful, or rare, 

Sweet to the sense, or pure to thought. 
But thou art found reflected there. 



%\\t ^\\m finvit 



Hd tl 



le wave in its element steep 



An island of lovelier charms ; 
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deej 

Like Hebe in Hercules' arms. 
The blush of your bowers is light to the eye)--^ \i 

And their melody balm to the ear; 
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, 

And the Snow Spirit never comes heie 





The down from his wing is as white as the pearl 

That shines through thy hps when they -part, 
And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, 

As a murmur of thine on the heart. 
O, fly to the clime, where he pillows the death. 

As he cradles the birth of the year ; 
Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath, 

But the Snow Spirit cannot come here. 

How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale, 

And brightening the bosom of morn. 
He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil 

O'er the brow of each virginal thorn. 
Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts 

In the veil of a vestal severe : 
No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts. 

Should the Snow Spirit ever come here. 

But fly to his region — lay open thy zone, 

And he '11 weep all his brilliancy dim, 
To think that a bosom, as white as his own, 

Should not melt in a daybeam like him. 
0, lovely the print of those delicate feet 

O'er his luminous path will appear — 
Fly, my beloved ! this island is sweet. 

But the Snow Spirit cannot come here. 





FiVravOa (^e Kadupfuarai //fin 
XpvfJT/ 6' av TTpo^ ye efiov ovofiaC 



"//^'ir^ 5f |Sit0lC along the flowery bank, 




§ Mt ntonrj the ibwm} knit. 



, Ti /lev ovofta r; n/ffu, ovk oiia X'W, '■, 

PniLOSTRAT. Icoti. 17, lib. ii. ^afiili 



While many a bending seagrape" drank •- f 
The sprinkle of the feathery oar v ' 

j That wing'd me round this fairy shore. 






iw^ % 



'T was noon : and every orange bud 
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood, 
*^ Faint as the lids of maiden's eyes ^ 
When love thoughts in her bosom rise. 
0, for a naiad's sparry bower, 
To shade me in that glowing hour! 

A little dove, of milky hue, 
Before me from a plantain flew, 
And light along the water's brim, 
I steer 'd my gentle bark by him ; 
For fancy told me, Love had sent 
This gentle bird with kind intent 
To lead my steps where I should meet — 
I knew not what, but something sweet. 

And — bless the little pilot dove! 
He had indeed been sent by Love, 
To guide me to a scene so dear 
As fate allows but seldom here; 
One of those rare and brilliant hours, 
That, like the aloe's" lingering flowers, 
May blossom to the eye of man 
But once in all his weary span. 






Just where the margin's opening shade \ 




> 





My bud lepos'd lii-^ sil\(r pluiiie 
Upon a rich banana'b bloom 
^0 vision bright! spuit fan ' 

What spell, what magic -lais'd her there "i* 
'Twas Nea! slumbenng calm and mild, 
And bloomy as the dimpled child. 
Whose spirit in eh '^lum keeps 
Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps. 

The broad banana's green embrace 
Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace ; 
One little beam alone could win 
The leaves to let it wander in, 
And, stealing over all her charms, 
From lip to cheek, from neck to arms. 
New lustre to each beauty lent, — 
Itself all trembling as it went ! 

Dark lay her eyelid's jetty fringe 
Upon that cheek whose roseate tinge 
Mix'd with its shade, like evening's light 
Just touching on the verge of night. 
Her eyes, though thus in slumber hid, 
Seem'd glowing through the ivory lid, 
And, as I thought, a lustre threw 
Upon her lip's reflecting dew, — 
Such as a night lamp, left to shine 
Alone on some secluded shrine, 








> 




!^ 



'% 



'May shed upou the votuu wreath, ' 
Which pious hands have hung beneath. 

Was ever vision half so sweet ' 
Think, think how quick my heait pulse beat 
As o'er the rustling bank I btole , — 
0, ye, that know the lover's soul, 
It is for you alone to guess, 
That moment's trembling happiness. 



gk f ttttlj fwm tilt guttiqut. 



i 




nli0ult my love, the curious gem 

Within this simple ring of gold ; 

Tis hallow'd by the touch of them 

Who liv'd in classic hours of old. 



Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps, 

Upon her hand this gem display 'd, 
Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse 

Should see it grace a lovelier maid. ^--^ ^ 

AJ 

Look, dearest, what a sweet design ! /^i^ 

The more we gaze, it charms the more ; f\/^ , 

Come — closer bring that cheek to mine, V- \ 
And trace with me its beauties o'er. 

V 








"' Thou see'^t, it it, a fciiu|.lc youtl 

By some enamour'd nymph embrac'd; 

2^ Look, as she leans, and say in sooth 
Is not that hand most fondly plac'd ? 

Upon his curled head behind 

It seems in careless play to lie,^^ 

Yet presses gently, half inclin'd 
To bring the truant's lip more nigh. 

happy maid ! too happy boy ! 

The one so fond and little loath, 
The other yielding slow to joy — 

rare, indeed, but blissful both. 

Imagine, love, tliat I am he. 
And just as warm as he is chill 

Imagine, too, that thou art she. 
But quite as coy as she is willing: 

So may we try the graceful way 
In whieli their gentle arms are twi 

And thus, like her, my hand I lay 
Upon thy wreathed locks behind : 

And thus I feel thee breathing sweet, 
A^ slow to mine thy head I move ; 

And thus our lips togetlier meet. 

And thus,— and thus, — I kiss thee, lov( 




X 





i>s_ 



oTi oTvo^T^v/ievov ev<ppaivEi. 
Aeistot. EhetoT. lib. 



^hCW'lJi not a look, a word of tliine, 

My soul hath e'er forgot; 
Thou ne'er liast bid a ringlet shine, ^. ^j<^' l^-^n 
Nor giv'n thy locks one graceful twine^'^^p'j^ 

Which I remember not. 

There never yet a murmur fell 

From that beguiling tongue, 
Which did not, with a lingering spell, 
Upon my charmed senses dwell. 

Like songs from Eden sung. 

Ah ! that I could, at once, forget 

All, all that haunts me so — 
And yet, thou witching girl, — and yet. 
To die were sweeter than to let 

The lov'd remembrance go. 

No ; if this slighted heart must 

Its faithful pulse decay, 
let it die, remembering thee, 
And, like the burnt aroma, be 

Consum'd in sweets away. 




MlXt dayliglit is goue — but before we depart 
' One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart, 
'The kindest, the dearest — 0, judge by the tear 
'I now shed while I name him, how kind and how 
dear." 




^0 ^if$t\)\x ^M\m% (g^ij. 




'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash Tree, 
With a few, who could feel and remember like me, 
The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw 
Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you. 

0, say is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour. 
When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower, 
Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew, 
In blossoms of thought, ever springing and new — 
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim 
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him 
(^) Who is lonely and sad in these valleys so fair, /, 

And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there ! 

Last niglit, when we came from the Calabash Tree, 
When my limbs were at rest and ray spirit was free. 
The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day- 
Set the magical springs of my fancy in play. 






And 0,^siicli a vision as haunted me then 

I would shuuber for ages to witness again. 

The many I hke, and the few I adore, 

The friends who were dear and beloved before, 

But never till now so beloved and dear, 

At the call of my Fancy, surrounded me here; 

And soon, — O, at once, did the light of their smiles 

To a paradise brighten this region of isl 

More lucid the wave, as they look'd on it, flow'd. 

And brighter the rose, as they gather'd it, glow'd. 

Not the valleys Hersean (though water'd by ril 

Of the pearliest ITow, from those pastoral hills,'" 

Where the Song of the Shepherd, primeval and wild, 

Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,) 

Could boast such a lustre o'er land and o'er wave 

As the magic of love to this paradise gave. 

magic of love! unembellish'd by you, 
Hath the garden a blush or the landscape a hue ? /S^^ 
shines there a vista in nature or art, 
ike that which Love opes through the eye to the heart' 

Alas, that a vision so happy should fade ! 

at, when morning around me in brilliancy play'd. 





The lose and the stream I had thought of at night 

Should still be before me, unfadmgly bright; 

While the friends who had seem'd to hang over the 

stream, 
And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream. 

But look, where, all ready, in sailing array. 
The bark that's to carry these pages away,*" 
Impatiently flutters her wing to the wind, 
And will soon leave these islets of Ariel behind. 
What billows, what gales is she fated to prove. 
Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love! 
Yet pleasant the swell of the billows would be. 
And the road of those gales would be music to me. 
Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew, 
Not the sunniest tears of thfe summer eve dew, 
Were as sweet as the storm, or as bright as the foam 
Of the surge, that would hurry your wanderer home. 





f r 



'^\ 



^ 



'wltCtt freshly blows the northern gal 

And under courses snug we fly ; 
Or when light breezes swell the sail, 

And royals proudly sweep the sky ; 
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still 

I stand, and, as ray watchful eye 
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, 

I think of her I love, and cry. 

Port, my boy 



When calms delay, or breezes blow, 

Right from the point we wish to steer 
When by the wind close haul'd we go, 
And strive in vain the port to near; 
I think 't is thus the fates defer 
'^ My bliss with one that's far away. 
And while remembrance springs to her, 
I watch the sails and sighing say. 

Thus, my boy 

But see the wind draws kindly aft. 
All hands are up the yards to square, 

And now the floating stu'n sails waft 
Our stately ship through waves and ai 



^ 



\j ^^^ ^^-~- 







0, then I think that yet for me 

Some breeze of fortune thus may sprin; 

Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee — 
And in that hope I smihng sing, 

Steady, boy ! so, 



la the |ivetlj|. 



•t morning, when the earth and sky 
Are glowing with the light of spring 
We see thee not, thou humble fly 
Nor think upon thy gleaming win 

But when the skies have lost their hue 
And sunny lights no longer play, 

then we see and bless thee too 
For sparkling o'er the dreary way. 

Thus let me hope, when lost to me 
The lights that now my life illume, 

Some milder joys may come, like thee. 
To cheer, if not to warm, the gloom. 






^0 titf §m\ ^bmmt goxht^. 



OTl former times had never left a trace 
Of human frailty in their onward race, 
Nor o'er their pathway written, as they ran. 
One dark memorial of the crimes of man ; 
If every age, in new unconscious prime, 
Rose, like a phoenix, from the fires of time, 
To wing its way unguided and alone, 
The future smiling and the past unknown ; 




Then ardent man would to himself be new, 
Earth at his foot and heaven within his view : 
Well might the novice hope, the sanguine scheme 
Of full perfection prompt his daring dream, 
Ere cold experience, with her veteran lore. 
Could tell him, fools had dreamt as much before. 
But, tracing as we do, through age and clime, 
The plans of virtue 'midst the deeds of crime, 
The thinking follies and the reasoning rage 
Of man, at once the idiot and the sage; 
When still we see, through every varying frame 
Of arts and polity, his course the same. 
And know that ancient fools but died, to make 
A space on earth for modern fools to take ; 
'T is strange, how quickly we the past forget; 
That Wisdom's self should not be tutor'd yet. 
Nor tire of watching for the monstrous birth 
Of pure perfection 'midst the sons of earth ! 

0, nothing but that soul which God has given. 
Could lead us thus to look on earth for heaven ; 
O'er dross without to shed the light within. 
And dream of virtue while we see but sin. 



Even here, beside the proud Potowmac's stream, 
Might sagos still pursue the flattering theme 




Of days to come, wlien man shall conquer fate, 

E,ise o'er the level of his mortal state, 

Belie the monuments of frailty past, 

And j^lant perfection in this world at last! 

"Here," might they say, "shall power's divided 

reign 
"Evince that patriots have not bled in vain. 
"Here godlike liberty's herculean youth, 
"Cradled in peace, and nurtur'd up by truth 
"To full maturity of nerve and mind, 
"Shall crush the giants that bestride mankind." 
"Here shall religion's pure and balmy draught 
"In form no more from cups of state be quaff'd, 
"But flow for all, through nation, rank, and sect, 
"Free as that heaven its tranquil waves reflect. 
"Around the columns of the public shrine 
"Shall growing arts their gradual wreath intwine, 
"Nor breathe corruption from the flowering braid, 
"Nor mine that fabric which they bloom to shade. "> 
"No longer here shall Justice bound her view, 
"Or wrong the many, while she rights the few, 
"But take her range through all the social frame, 
"Pure and pervading as that vital flame 
"Which warms at once our best and meanest part. 
"And thrills a hair while it expands a heart 

golden dream ! what soul that loves to scan 
The bright disk rather than the dark of man, 




fe 



I 



That owns the good, while smarting with the ill, 

loves the world with all its frailty still, — 
What ardent bosom does not spring to meet 
The generous hope, with all that heavenly heat, 
Which makes the soul unwilling to resign 
The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine! 
Yes, dearest friend, I see thee glow to think 
The chain of ages yet may boast a link 
Of purer texture than the world has known, 
And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne. 

But, is it thus? doth even the glorious dream 
Borrow from truth that dim, uncertain gleam. 
Which tempts us still to give such fancies scope, 
As shock not reason, while they nourish hope? 
No, no, believe me, 't is not so — ev'n now, 
While yet upon Columbia's rising brow 
The showy smile of young presumption plays. 
Her bloom is poison'd and her heart decays. 
Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath 
Burns with the taint of empires near their death; 
And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime, 
She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime.' 

Already has the child of Gallia's school 
The foul Philosophy that sins by rule. 
With all her train of reasoning, damning arts. 
Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts, 



'4^ 



3 that quicken after Nilus' flood, 
/enom'd birth of sunshine and of mud, — 
Ah'eady has she pour'd her poison liere 
O'er every charm that makes existence dear; 
Ah'eady blighted, with her blackening trace. 
The opening bloom of every social grace, 
And all those courtesies, that love to shoot 
Round virtue's stem, the flow "rets of her fruit. 

And, were these errors but the wanton tide 
Of young luxuriance or unchasten'd pride; 
The fervid follies and the faults of such 
As wrongly feel, because they feel too much; 
Then might experience make the fever less. 
Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess. 
But no; 'tis heartless, speculative ill. 
All youth's transgression with all age's chill; 
The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice, 
A slow and cold staernation into vice. 



Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, 
And latest folly of man's sinking age. 
Which, rarely venturing in the van of life. 
While nobler passions wage their heated strife, 
Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear. 
And dies, collecting lumber in the rear, — 
Long has it palsied every grasping hand 
And greedy spirit through this bartering land; 





Turn'd life to traffic, set the demon gold 
So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold, 
And conscience, truth, and honesty are made 
To rise and fall, like other wares of trade." 



Already in this free, this virtuous state. 
Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordain'd by fate, 
To show the world, what high perfection springs 
From rabble senators, and merchant kings, — • 
Even here already patriots learn to steal 
Their private perquisites from public weal, 
And, guardians of the country's sacred fire, 
Like Afric's priests, let out the flame for hire. 
Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose 
From England's debtors to be England's foes," 
Who could their monarch in their purse forget, 
And break allegiance, but to cancel debt," 
Have prov'd at length, the mineral's tempting hue. 
Which makes a patriot, can unmake him too.^' 
0, Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant! 
Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant 
Of purpled madmen, were they number'd all, 
From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, 
Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, 
As the rank jargon of that factious race. 
Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words, 
Form'd to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords. 



'^^i 




ut forth, as patriots, from their negro marts, 
And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts 



Who can, with patience, for a moment see 
The medley mass of pride and misery. 
Of whips and charters, manacles and rights. 
Of slaving blacks and democratic whites," 
And all the piebald polity that reigns 
In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains? 
To think that man, thou just and gentle God! 
Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod 
O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee, 
Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty ; 
Away, away — I'd rather hold my neck 
By doubtful tenure from a sultan's heck, 
In climes, where liberty has scarce been nam'd, 
Kor any right but that of ruling claim'd, 
Than thus to live, where bastard Freedom waves 
Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves; 
Where — motley laws admitting no degree 
Betwixt the vilely slav'd and madly free — 
Alike the bondage and the license suit 
The brute made ruler and the man made brute. 



But, while I thus, my friend, in flowerless song. 
So feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong. 



^3-^£^C 



:v 



^ ^k w 




The ills, the vices of the land, where first N^ 

Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were 

nui-s'd, 
Where treason's arm by royalty was nerv'd, 
And Frenchmen learn'd to crush the throne they 

serv'd — 
Thou, calmly lull'd in dreams of classic thought, 
By bards illumin'd and by sages taught, 
Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene. 
That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been. 
Why should I wake thee? why severely chase 
The lovely forms of virtue and of grace, 
That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread 
By Spartan matrons round the genial bed, 
Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art 
Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart. 



Forgive me, Forbes — and should the song desti 
One generous hope, one throb of social joy, 
One high pulsation of the zeal for man, 
Which few can feel, and bless that few who can,; 
0, turn to him, beneath whose kindred eyes 
Thy talents open and thj' virtues rise. 
Forget where nature has been dark or dim, 
And proudly study all her lights in him. 
Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget, 
And feel that man may reach perfection yet. 



<:^^ 



^ 



.^ j fl kv, 



4^^^^^^^^^^^ 





®0 ^homa^ gwuur, ^^q. §X, § 




AiT^yTjoofzat diT^yTjjiaTa tour; aTZLCTa. 



i.Ji evening now ; beneath the western star 
Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar, 
And fills the ears of some consenting she 
With puflfs and vows, with smoke and constancy. 
The patriot, fresh from Freedom's councils come, 
Now pleas'd retires to lash his slaves at home ; 
Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia's charms. 
And dream of freedom in his bondmaid's arms/* 

In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom. 
Come, let me lead thee o'er this "second Rome! 
Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, 
And what was Goose Creek once is Tiber now;" 
This embryo capital, where Fancy sees 
Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees; 
AVhich second-sighted seers, ev'n now. adorn 
With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn. 




TLouyli naught but woods' and J n they see, 

Wheie stieetb should lun and sages ouyld to be. 





And look, how calmly in yon radiant wave. 
The dying sun prepares his golden grave. 
mighty river ! ye banks of shade 
Ye matchless scenes, in nature's morning made, 
While still, in all th' exuberance of prime, 
She pour'd her wonders, lavishly sublime. 
Nor yet had learn'd to stoop, with humbler care. 
From errand to soft, from wonderful to fair; — 
Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods, 
Your rich savannas and majestic woods. 
Where bards should meditate and heroes rove. 
And woman charm, and man deserve her love,— 
say, was world so bright, but born to grace 
Its own half-organized, half-minded race" 
Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast. 
Like vermin gender'd on the lion's crest? 
Were none but brutes to call that soil their home, 
Where none but demigods should dare to roam? 
Or, worse, thou wondrous world ! 0, doubly worse, 
Did heaven design thy lordly land to nurse 





The motley dregs of every distant clime, 
Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime 
Wliicli Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere, 
In full malignity to rankle here? 

But hold, — observe yon little mount of pines. 
Where the breeze murmurs and the firefly shines. 
There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, 
The sculptur'd image of that veteran chief" 
Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name, 
And climb'd o'er prostrate loyalty to fame; 
Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train 
Cast off their monarch, that their mob might reign. 







How shall we rank thee upon glory's page? 
Thou more than soldier and jusfless than sage! 
Of peace too fond to act the conqueror's part. 
Too long in camps to learn a statesman's art, 
Nature design'd thee for a hero's mould, 
But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold. 

While loftier souls command, nay, make their 
fate. 
Thy fate made thee and forc'd thee to be great; 






Yet Foitune, who so oft, so blindly sheds 

Hei biightest halo lound the weakest heads, 

Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before, 

Proud to be useful, scorning to be more; 

Less mov'd by glory's than by duty's claim, 

Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim; 

All that thou wert reflects less fame on thee, 

Far less, than all thou didst forbear to be. 

Nor yet the patriot of one land alone, — 

For, thine 's a name all nations claim their own ; 

And every shore, where breath 'd the good and brave 

Echo'd the plaudits thy own country gave. 

Now look, my friend, where faint the moonlight 
falls 
On yonder dome, and, in those princely halls, — 
If thou canst hate, as sure that soul must hate, 
Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great, 
If thou canst loathe and execrate with me 
The poisonous drug of French 2:)hilosophy, 
That nauseous slaver of these frantic times, 
With which false liberty dilutes her crimes, — • 
If thou hast got, within thy free-born breast. 
One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest 




m 



With honest scoi-n for that inglorious soul, 
Which creeps and winds beneath a mob's control, 
Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod, 
And makes, like Egvpt, every beast its god, 
There, in those walls — but, burning tongue, forbear! 
Rank must be reverenc'd, even the rank that's there: 
So here I pause — and now. dear Hume, we part: 
But oft again, in frank exchange of heart. 
Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear, 
By Thames at home, or by Potowmac here. 
O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs 
'Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs, 
Tliy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes 
With me shall wonder, and with me despise. °* 
While T, as oft, in fancy's dream shall rove, 
With thee conversing, through that land I love, 
Where, like the air that fans her fields of green, 
Her freedom spreads, unfever'd and serene; 
And sovereign man can condescend to see 
The throne and laws more sovereign still than he. 







Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain 

Unblest by the smile he had languish'd to meet; ^^N^ 

Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, ^ 

Till the threshold of home had been press'd by his 
feet. 



But the lays of his boyhood had stol'n to their ear, 
And they lov'd what they knew of so humble a 
name; 
And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear. 
That they found in his heart something better than 
fame. 

Nor did woman — woman ! whose form and whose 
soul 

Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue; 
Whether sunn'd in the tropics or chill'd at the pole, 

If woman be there, there is happiness too : — 

Nor did she her enamouring magic deny, — 

That magic his heart had relinquish'd so long, — 

Like eyes he had lov'd was her eloquent eye. 
Like them did it soften and weep at his song. 









0, blest be the tear, and in memory oft 

May its sparkle be slied o'er the wanderer's 
dream ; 

Thrice blest be that eye, and may passion as soft, 
As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam ! 

The stranger is gone — but he will not forget, 
When at home he shall talk of the toils he has 
known, 

To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met. 

As he stray'd by the wave of the Schuylkill alone. 





Gia era in loco ove s' uj 
Deir acqiia . 

^IWtt rise of morn till set of sun 

I've seen the mighty Mohawk run; 

And as I mark'd the woods of pine 

Along his mirror darkly shine, 

Like tall and gloomy forms that pass 

Before the wizard's midnight glass ; 

And as I view'd the hurrying pace 

With which he ran his turbid race, 

Rushing, alike untir'd and wild, 

Through shades that frownVl and flowers that smil 



n 



Flying by every green recess 
That woo'd him to its calm caress, 
Yet sometimes turning with the wind 
As if to leave one look behind, — 
Oft have I thought, and thinking sigh'd, 
How like to thee, thou restless tide, 
May be the lot, the life of him 
Who roams along thy water's brim; 
Through what alternate wastes of woe 
And flowers of joy my path may go; 
How many a sbelter'd, calm retreat 
May woo the while my weary feet, 
While still pursuing, still unblest, 
I wander on nor dai-e to rest; 
But, urgent as the doom that calls 
Thy water to its destiu'd falls, 
I feel the world's bewildering force 
Hurry my heart's devoted course 
From lapse to lapse, till life be done, 
And the spent current cease to run. 

One only prayer I dare to inake, 
As onward thus my course I take; — 
O, be my falls as bright as thine! 
May heaven's relenting rainbow shine 
Upon the mist that circles me, 
As soft as now it hano-s o'er thee! 




^s= 



^ 'AV^- 



m 



^ 



y 



^0ng 0f tHc €rU ^\mi ci tltc aiV00a,s 



, difBcilis, qunque est via nulla. 

Ovid. Metam. lib. iii. v. 'J2' 



^OW the vapor, hot and damp, 
Shed by day's expiring lamp. 
Through the misty ether spreads 
Every ill the white man dreads ; 
Fiery fever's thirsty thrill, 
Fitful ague's shivering chill ! 

Hark ! I hear the traveller's song, 
As he winds the woods along; 
Christian, 'tis the song of fear; 
Wolves are round thee, night is near. 
And the wild thou dar'st to roam — 
Think, 't was once the Indian's home ! ' 

Hither, sprites, who love to harm, 
Wheresoe'er you work your charm. 
By the creeks, or by the brakes. 
Where the pale witch feeds her snakes. 





n 




k" >\v^ 




And the caymau" loves to creep, 
Torpid, to his wintry sleep : 
Where the bird of carrion flits, 
And the shuddering murderer sits,' 
Lone beneath a roof of blood ; 
While upon his poison'd food. 
From the corpse of him he slew 
Drops the chill and gory dew. 



t4 



m 






Hither bend ye, turn ye hither, 
Eyes that blast and wings that wither ! 
Cross the wandering Christian's way. 
Lead him, ere the glimpse of day. 
Many a mile of madd'ning error 
Through the maze of night and terror. 
Till the morn behold him lying 
On the, damp earth, pale and dying. 
Mock him, when his eager sight 
Seeks the cordial cottage light ; 
Gleam then, like the lightning bug, 
Tempt him to the den that's dug 
For the foul and famish'd brood 
Of the she wolf, gaunt for blood ; 
Or, unto the dangerous pass 
O'er the deep and dark morass, 




^^m^^^ 



^ 



.^^ 



^^ 



Where the trembling Indian bring: 
Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings, 
Tributes to be hung in air, 
To the Fiend presiding ther 




m 



Then, when night's long labor past, 
Wilder'd faint, he falls at last, 
Sinking where the causeway's edge 
Moulders in the slimy sedge. 
There let every noxious thing 
Trail its filth and fix its sting; 
Let the bull toad taint him over, 
Round him let musquitoes hover. 
In his ears and eyeballs tingling. 
With his blood their poison mingling, 
Till, beneath the solar fires, 
Rankling all, the wretch expires! 






5fh0U oft hast told me of the happy hours 
ilnjoy'd by thee in fair Italia's bowers, 

ngering yet, the ghost of ancient wit 
'IMidst modern moidcs profanely dares to flit, 
And pagan spirits, by the pope unkiid. 
Haunt every stream and sing through every shade; 
Tliere still the bard who (if his numbers be 
Ills tongue's light echo) must have talk'd like thee, 
The -courtly bard, from wliom thv mind has caught 
Those playful, sunshine holy days of thought, 



C^g^^^ 




M 



In which the spirit baskingly reclines, 
Bright without effort, resting while it shines. 
There still he roves, and laughing loves to 
How modern priests with ancient rakes agree; 
How, 'neath the cowl, the festal garland shines, 
And Love still finds a niche in Christian shrines. 

There still, too, roam those other souls of song, 
With whom thy spirit hath commun'd- so long, 
That, quick as light, their rarest gems of thought, 
By Memory's magic to thy lip are brought. 
But here, alas ! by Erie's stormy lake. 
As, far from such bright haunts my course I take, 
No proud remembrance o'er the fancy plays. 
No classic dream, no star of otlier days 
^Hath left that visionary light behind, 

^ering radiance of immortal mind. 
Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene. 
The humblest shed, where Genius once has been 



^^Hathlef 
Y ^Thatlinj 



All that creation's varying mass assumes 
Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms. 
Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow. 
Bright lakes expand, and conquering" rivers flow 
But mind, immortal mind, without whose ray. 
This world 's a wilderness and man but cla3'. 




"""^^sU^Ju^^f"'^ ' 







Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose. 
Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows. 
Take Cliristians, Mohawks, democrats, and all 
From the rude wigwam to the congress hall, 
From man the savage, whether slav'd or free. 
To man the civiliz'd, less tame than he, — 
'T is one dull chaos, one unfertile strife 
Betwixt half-polish'd and half-barbarous life; 
Where eVery ill the ancient world could brew 
la mix'd with every grossness of the new; 
Wliere all corrupts, though little can entice, 
And naught is known of luxury, but its vice! 



V^ 



Is this the region then, is this the clime 
For soaring fancies? for those dreams sublime, 
^ Which all their miracles of light reveal 
'io heads that meditate and hearts that feel? 
Alab ! not so — the Muse of Nature lights ^ 

Hei glories round ; she scales the mountain heights. 
And loaras the forests; every wondrous spot 
Burns with her step, yet man regards it not. 
She whispers round, her words are in the air. 
But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there," 0^ 
Without one breath of soul, divinely strong, 
One lay of mind to thaw them into song. 



LU^ 



3^^a^^<j 



-^"<^ 



yj- 



Yet, yet forgive me, ye sacred few. 
Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew; 
Whom, known and lov'd throngh many a social eve, 
'T was bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave." 
Not with more joy the lonely exile seann'd 
The writing trac'd upon the desert's sand, 
Where his lone heart but little hop'd to find 
One trace of life, one stamp of humankind, 
Than did I hail the pure, th' enlighten'd zeal, 
The strength to reason and the warmth to feel, 
The manlv polish and the illumin'd taste. 
Which, — 'mid the melancholy, heartless waste 
My foot has travers'd, — you sacred few! 
I found by Delaware's green banks with you. 



P 



4 



4J ^ Long may you loath the gallic dross that runs 

Tlirough vour fair country and corrupts its son 
Long love the arts, the glories which adorn ;■ 

Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born 
0, if America can yet be great. 
If neither chain'd by choice, nor doom'd by fate 
To the mob mania wliich imbrutes her now. 
She yet can raise the crown 'd, yet civic brow fP"- 
Of single majesty, — can add the grace 
Of Rank's rich capital to Freedom's base, 
Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prov 
For the fair ornament that flowers above;- 



¥ 



I 




.{^ 



^X^ If yet releas'd from all that pedant throng, 
So vain of error and so pledg'd to wrong, 
Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide 
Weakness in vaunt, and barrenness in pride. 
She yet can rise, can wreath the Attic charms 
''^-l!c> Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms, 
<5^And see her poets flash the fires of song, 
I A/ To light her warriors' thunderbolts along;— 
^ It is to you, to souls that favoring heaven 

Has made like yours, the glorious task is given! 
/ 0, but for such, Columbia's days were done; 
Rank without ripeness, quicken'd without sun. 
Crude at the surface, rotten at the core. 
Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er. 



Believe me, Spencer, while I wing'd the hours 
Where Schuylkill winds his way through banks c 

flowers. 
Though few the days, the happy evenings few, 
So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, 
That my charm'd soul forgot its wish to roam 
And rested there, as in a dream of home. 
And looks I met, like looks I'd lov'd before. 
And voices too, which, as they trembled o'er 
The chord of memory, found full many a tone 
Of kindness there in concord with their own. 




r 



cr 



W 



^^-^C& 






1 



That flow of heart, whicli I have known with thee 
Bo oft, so warmly ; nights of mirth and mind. 
Of whims that taught, and folHes that refin'd. 
When shall we both renew them? when, restor'd 
To the gay feast and intellectual board. 
Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine 
Those whims that teach, those follies that refine? 
Even now, as, wandering upon Erie's shore, 
I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar, 
I sigh for home, — alas! these weary feet 
Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet. 



a HATPIS, 'aZ 20T KAPTA NTN MNEIAN EXfl. 



? 



r 






# 



I 



:^3g^^. 



P 



df Uttf IC by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd 
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, 

And I- said, "It there's peace to be found in the worl 
"A heart that was humble might hoj^e for it here!' 

It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around 

In silence repos'd the voluptuous bee ; 
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound 

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech tree. 



And, "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaim'd, 
' "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, 
Who would blush when I prais'd her, and weep if I 
blam'd, 
'How blest could I live, and how calm could I die! 

' T>y the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips 
"In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recWue.jffJ';^ 

" And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips |/ 

"Which had never been sigh'd on by any but 
mine!" 



9,± 






^lliutUl as tolls the evening cliime 

Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time 

Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 

We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn " ^J^^l 










^-^, 



-^fflg 



t.'^ 




— ^*^i^^^§- 




Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, 
Tlie Rapids are near and the daylight's past. 

Why should we yet our sail unfurl? 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. 
But, when the wind blows off the shore, 
O, sweetly we '11 rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast. 
The Rapids are near and the daylight's past. 



Utawas' tide : this trembling moon 
Shall see us float o'er thy surges soon. 
Saint -of this green isle! hear our prayers, 
O, grant us cool heavens and flavoring airs. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
The Rapids are near and the daylight 's past. 



^^^^m:^:^^:::::;^^^^ 








u 



Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded 

shores, 
Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours, 
And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze, 
Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries; — 
Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves. 
Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves, 
And hears the v«pirit voice of sire, or chief, 
Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf." 
There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung 
My own unpolish'd lays, how proud I 've hung 
On every tuneful accent ! proud to feel 
That notes like mine should have the fate to 

steal, 
As o'er thy hallowing lip they sigh'd along, 
Such breath of passion and such soul of song. 
Yes, — I have wondered, like some peasant boy 
Who sings, on Sabbath eve, his strains of joy, 
And when he hears the wild, untutor'd note 
Back to his ear on softening echoes float, 
Believes it still some answering spirit's tone, 
And thinks it all too sweet to be his own ! 









"TW 



^ I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year 
Had fill'd its circle, I should wander here 
In musing awe ; sliould tread this wondrous 

world, 
See all its store of inland waters hurl'd 
In one vast volume down Niagara's steep, 
Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep, 
Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed 
Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed; 
Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide 
Down the white rapids of his lordly tid 
Through massy woods, 'mid islets flowering fair 
And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair 
For consolation might have weeping trod, 
When banish'd from the garden of their God. 
0, Lady ! these are miracles, which man,' 
Cag'd in the bounds of Europe's pigmy span. 
Can scarcely dream of,— which his eye must see 
To know how wonderful this world can be 

But lo,— the last tints of the west decline. 
And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine. 





Among the reeds, in which our idle boat 
Is rock'd to rest, the wind's complaining note 
I)ies like a half-breath'd whispering of flutes ; 
Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots, 
And I can trace him, like a wateiy star," 
Down the steep current, till he fades afar 
Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light, 
Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the 

night. 
Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray. 
And the smooth glass snake," gliding o'er my 

way. 
Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form 
Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm, 
Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze 
Some Indian Spirit warble words like these: — 

From the land beyond the sea, 
Whither happy spirits flee; 
Where, transform'd to sacred doves. 
Many a blessed Indian roves 
Through the air on wing, as white 
As those wondrous stones of light," 




^-ffe. 



m 



Which the eye of morning counts 
On the Apallachian mounts, — 
Hither oft my flight I take 
Over Huron's lucid lake, 
Where the wave, as clear as dew, 
Sleeps beneath the light canoe, 
Which, reflected, floating there. 
Looks as if it hung in air." 

Then, when I have stray 'd a while 
Through the Manataulin isle,'' 
Breathing all its holy bloom. 
Swift I mount me on the plume 
Of my Wakon Bird," and fly 
Where, beneath a burning sky, 
O'er the bed of Erie's lake 
Slumbers many a water snake, 
Wrapp'd within the web of leaves, 
Which the water lily weaves,'^ 
Next I chas'd the flow'ret king 
Through his rosy realm of spring; 
See him now, while diamond hues 
Soft his neck and wino;s suffuse, 



it*.. 



V 



.-K'jiiiiE;::^::rpJ%. f#-^ 



Wy, 



'C^\ 



^ In the leafy chalice sink, 

Thirsting for his balmy drink; 
Now behold him all on fire, 
Lovely in his looks of ire. 
Breaking every infant stem. 
Scattering every velvet gem. 
Where his little tyrant lip 
Has not found enough to sip. 



Then my playful hand I steep 
Where the gold thread" loves to creep, 
Cull from thence a tangled wreath, 
Words of magic round it breathe, 
And the sunny chaplet spread 
O'er the sleeping flybird's head,'* 
Till, with dreams of honey blest, 
Haunted, in his downy nest. 
By tlie garden's fairest spells. 
Dewy buds and fragrant bells. 
Fancy all his soul embowers 
In the flybird's heaven of flowers. 



W 




Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes 
Melt along the ruffled lakes, 
When the gray moose shed his horns. 
When the track, at evening, warns 
Weary hunters of the way 
To the wigwam's cheering ray, 
Then, aloft, through freezing air, 
With the snow bird" soft and fair 
As the fleece that heaven flings 
O'er his little pearly wings, 
Light above the rocks I play, 
Where Niagara's starry spray. 
Frozen on the cliff, appears 
Like a giant's starting tears. 
There, amid the island sedge, 
Just upon the cataract's edge, 
Where the foot of living man 
Never trod since time began, 
Lone I sit, at close of day. 
While, beneath the golden ray, 
Icy columns gleam below, 
Feather'd round with falling snow, 





'41) 



Sparkling as the chain of rings 
Round the necks of virgins hung, — 
Virgins," who have wander'd young 
O'er the waters of the west 
To the land where spirits rest! 

Thus have I charm 'd, with visionary lay, 
The lonely moments of the niglit away ; 
And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams! 
Once more, erabark'd upon the glittering streams 
Oui boat flies light along the leafy shore, 
hhooting the falls, without a dip of oar 
Oi breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark 
The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark, 
Boine, without sails, along the dusky flood," 
Whde on its deck a pilot angel stood, 
And, with his wings of living light unfurl'd, 
Coasted the dim shores of another world ! 



m 




w 



Yet, 0, believe me, 'mid this mingled maze 
Of nature's beauties, where the fancy strays 









. From charm to charm, where every flow'ret'i 
'O hue 

Hath something strange, and every leaf is new,- 
I never feel a joy so pure and still. 
So inly felt, as when some brook or hill, 
Or veteran oak, like those remember'd well, 
Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell, 
(For, who can say by what small fairy ties 
The mem'ry clings to pleasure as it flies?) 
Reminds my heart of many a sylvan dream 
I once indulg'd by Trent's inspiring stream ; 
Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights 
On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights. 

Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er 
When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore. 
With him, the polish'd warrior, by thy side, 
A sister's idol and a nation's pride! 
When thou hast read of heroes, trophied 
In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye 
Turn to the living hero, while it read. 
For pure and brightening comments on the dead ; 



:^i 



■S2Jt«ES:^b:;;j%i>. 



^1 



"W^ 



_^0r whether memory to my mind lecalls \ '*1 

The festal grandeur of those lordly halls, 
When guests have met around the sparkling 

board, 
And welcome warm'd the cuj? that luxury 

pour'd ; 
When the bright future Star of England's throne 
With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone, 
Winning respect, nor claiming what he won. 
But tempering greatness, like an evening sun 
Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire, 

Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire; 

Whatever hue my recollections take. 
Even tlie regret, the very jjain they wake 
Is mix'd with happiness; — but, ah! no more — 
Lady ! adieu — my heart has linger'd o'er 
Those vanish'd times, till all that round me lies, 
Streams, banks, and bowers have faded on my 

eyes ! ^ 

C 



.^^^>?t 



"^ 




gmpvomptu 



® VC(X^ but for a moment — and yet in tliat time 
She crowded th' impressions of many an hour: 

Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime, 
Which wak'd every feeling at once into flower. 




0, could we have borrow'd from Time but a day, 
To renew such impressions again and again. 

The things we should look and imagine and say 

Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then. 

What we had not the leisure or language to speak, 
We should find some more spiritual mode of re- 
vealing. 

And, between us, should feel just as much in a week 
As others would take a millennium in feeling. 



i 




IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENXE, 



^tt you, beneath yon cloud so dark, 

Fast gliding along a gloomy hark? 

Her sails are full, — though the wind is still, 

And there blows not a breath her sails to fill ' 



■^ 




ff=^"= 







^^^^ 



Say, what doth that vessel of darkness bear? 
The silent calm of the grave is there, 
Save now and again a death kneill rung, 
And the flap of the sails with night fog hungr 

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore - 
Of cold and pitiless Labrador; 
Wliere, under the moon, upon mounts of frost 
Full many a mariner's bones are toss'd. 

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck. 
And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck, 
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew 
As ever yet drank the churchyard dew. 

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast, 
To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast; 
By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd. 
And the hand that steers is not of this world ! 

0, hurry thee on — 0, hurry thee on. 
Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone, 
Nor let morning look on so foul a sight 
As would blanche forever her rosy light ! 



^. 



w 





Ill 1 14^ "With triumph this morning, Boston I I h iil \'_ 

^ Tlie stir of thy deck. and tlie spread of thy sail, 



413 




I^f 





Foi the} tell ine I soon shall be wafted, 

thee, 

To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free, 
And that chill Nova Scotia's unpromising strand ' 
Is the last I shall tread of American land. 
Well — peace to the land ! may her sons know, at 

length. 
That in high-minded honor lies liberty's strength. 
That though man be as free as the fetterless wind 
As the wantonest air that the north can unbind ■ 
Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the ' 

blast, 
If no harvest of mhid ever sprung where it pass'd, 
Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its 

might, — 
Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight! 



Farewell to the few I have left witli regret 
May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget 
The delight of those evenings, — too brief 
delight! 
converse and song we have stol 
on the nio-ht; 



^/fcT 



,^f 




%{ il 






^hen they've asked me the mannei^, the 
mind, or the mien, 
Of some bard I had known, or some chief I had 

seen, 
Whose glory, though distant, they long had 

ador'd, 
Whose name had oft hallow'd the wine cup they 

pour'd. 
And still as, Avith sympathy humble but true, (\\^^ 

I have told of each bright son of fame all I "^-^^ 
/// ' knew, ""^ 

iV /^f?%s They have listen'd, and sigh'd that the powcrfu' 
stream 
Of America's empire, should pass, like a dream, 
Without leaving one relic of genius, to say 
How sublime was the tide which had vanish'd 

away ! 
Farewell to the few — though we never may meet 
T On this planet again, it is soothing and 

.f) . '""'^ WiJO 

S^=— \ To think that, wdienever my song and my ^ ''■'''' 
name ~^|7| 

Shall recur to their ear, they '11 recall me the 
same 







I have been to them now, young, unthought- ■^/M 
ful, and West, ^ ^^ 

Ere hope liad deceived nie or sorrow depress'd. 

But, Douglas! while tluis I recall to my mind 
The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind ^ , , , , 
I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine e} e j/ilV \ \\\ 
ix^ As it follows the rack flitting over the sky, | 

y^h ^m '^^^^^ ^^® ^^^"*' coming breeze will be fair for our (\\J 
(1 J " '' flight, 

And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night - 



I,/ ^|X Dear Doudas! thou knowest, with thee by my 
VJIVS'^ side. 



/lli N 



^^^- With thy friendship to sooth me, thy courage to I |W ^jil 

M^ guide, ^1^/ 

There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas, 'ipt^ 

Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to W/ 
freeze, 
?i|1JF^ Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore, 



:? 



Q'iW "^'''^^ ^ '^^"''^ "''^ ^^''*'' patience, with pleas- ^^ i^VMi \ 
are explore ! * i ' ^ i , 

\ think then how gladly I follow thee — ;^ 
now, " ^ 

When Hope smoothes the billowy path of our 
l^row, 




ill/ "^"^ 

^ And each pio^ppiou-^ sigh ot the 
ing wind 
.Takes me nearer the home whe 

enshr 
Where the smile of a father shall 
/ And the tears of a mother turn bl 

''' ' ^ Where the kind voice of sisters si 

1 heart, 

I ' And ask it, in sighs, how we ever 

^'L '^'^r^iii/' But see! — the bent topsails are ready to '[y,i 

1^ \ swell — Jm 

Ij^^— To the boat — I am with thee — Columbia, fare- 
''dlM well ! 




APPENDIX, 

NOTES 

MOOKE'S MELODIES 

AMERICAIT POEMS. 



NOTES TO THE MELODIES. 



Note 1, page 35. 
(hie chord from that harp, or one loch Jri.m that hair. 
"In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an Act was 
made respecting the liabits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all 
persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or 
from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on 
thcii- upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written 
by (ine of our bards, in wliich an Irisk virgin is made to give the prefer- 
ence to her dear Coulin (or the youth_ with the flowing locks) to all 
strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their 
habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally ad- 
mired " — Walker's JTisforical Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Mr. 
Walker informs us, also, that about the same period there were some 
harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels. 

Note 2, page 36. 

TEMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE. 

Brien Borombe, the great Monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the 
battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having de- 
feated the Danes in twenty-five engagements. 

Note 3, page 36. 
Tho' lost to MONONIA a7id cold in the grave. 



IRISH MELODIES. 

Note 4, page 36. 
lie returns to KiNKORA 710 t 
The palace of Brien. 



Note 5, page 38. 
Ejrgd not our wounded companions, who stood. 
This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the 
favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from 
the battle of Cloiitarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded 
men entreated that tliey might be allowed to fight with the rest. — "Let 
stakes (they said) be stuck in the giound, and suffer each 0/ tts, tied to and 
supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound 
man." "Between seven and eight hundred wounded men (adds O'Hal- 
laran), pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed 
with the foremost of the troops; — never was such another sight exhib- 
ited."— -ffis/ory 0/ Ireland,, Book XII. Chap. i. 



Note 6, page 39. 
In times of old through AmmON's shade. 
Solis Fons, near the Temple of Amnion. 

Note 7, page 44. 

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 

"The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery 
which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow; 
and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the 
summer of the year 1807. 



NOTES. 

Note 8, page 44. 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright wafers meet. 
The rivers Avon and Avoca. 

Note 9, page 47. 

EICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. 

This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: — "The people were 
inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great 
example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of 
it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jew- 
els and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the 
kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which 
was a ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression had the laws 
and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, 
that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her 
clothes or jewels."— Warner's Bistort/ of Ireland, Vol. I. Book x. 



Note 10, page 49. 
We 're fallen upon gloomy days. 
I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it 
is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and 
ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great 
and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent 
and integrity. 

Note 11, page 50. 

Thou, of the Hundred Fights/ 

This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, is 

the title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O'Guive, the 



IRISH MELODIES. 

bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the "Philosophical Survey of the 
South of Ireland," p. 433. "Con, of the hundred Fights, sleep in thy 
grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories ! " 

Note 12, page 50. 

Trulh, peace, and freedom hung! 
Fox, "Komanorum ultimus." 

Note 13, page 53. 
Wliere teeary trai-cUers love to call. 
" In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were 
the more caressed the more they excelled in music." — O'Halloran. 

Note 14, page 57. 

ST. SENANUS. 

In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kil- 
kenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hibernkc, we 
are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to 
admit any woman of the party; he refused to receive even a sister saint, 
St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express pur- 
pose of introducing her to him. The following was the ungracious answer 
of Senanus, according to his poetical biographer: — 

Cui PrcBSul, quid fceminis 
Commune est cum monacliia? 
Nee te nee ullam aliam 
Admittemus in insulam. 

See the Acta Sanct. IIib. p. 610. 

According to Dr. Ledwicht, St. Senanus was no less a personage than 



the river Shannon ; but O'Connor and other antiquarians deny the meta- 
morphose indignantly. 



Note 15, page 66. 
When Malachi wore the collar of gold. 
" This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ire- 
land in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two 
of their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to luuul, 
taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword 
of the other, as trophies of his victory."— Waenee's HMorij of Irclaml, 
Vol. I. Book is. 

Note 16, page 66. 

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger. 

"Military ordeis of knights were very early established in Ireland; 
long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in 
Ulster, called Caraidhe na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red- 
Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the 
Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red- 
Branch ; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the 
sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the House of the Sorrow- 
ful Soldier." — O'Hallokan's Introduction, &c., Part I. Chap. v. 



Note 17, page 66. 

For the long faded glories they cover. 

It was an old tradition, in the time of Geraldus, that Lough Neagh had 

been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was 

inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. 

He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers 



IRISH MELODIES. 

the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. Piscatores aquce illius turres 
tcclesiasticM, qua more patrice arctm sunt et altw, necnon et rotunda;, sub undia 
manifeste sereno tempore eonspiciunt, et extraneis transeimtibvs, reique causas 
admirantibus, frequenter oslendunt. — TOPOGK. HiB., Dist. ii. c. 9. 

Note 18, page 67. 

THE SONG OF FIONNDALA. 

To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater 
number of verses than any one is authorised to inflict upon an audience 
at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that 
Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, trans- 
formed into a swan, and condemned to wander for many hundred years, 
over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, 
when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release. 
—I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from 
the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend 
of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira. 

Note 19, page 71. 
Like the bright lamp, that shone in KildAEE's holy fane. 
The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus 
mentions, " Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanctse Brigidfe, quem inex- 
tinguibilem vooant ; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam solioite 
moniales et sanctte mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutri- 
unt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inex- 
tinctus." — Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibem., Dist. ii. c. 34. 

Note 20, page 72. 
And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. 
Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has applied this image 
to a still more important object. 



Note 21, page 73. 

OHl BLAME NOT THE BARD. 

We m<ay suppose this apology to have heen uttered by one of those 
wandering biirds, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps truly, describes 
in his " State of Ireland," and whose poems, he tells us, " were sprinkled 
with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace 
and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the 
gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good us.age, would serve to 
adorn and beautify virtue." 

Note 22, page 73. 
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart. 

It is conjectured, by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from 
Yr. the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once 
veiy expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the 
following: "So that Ireland (called the land of Ire, from the constant 
broils therein for 400 years) w.as now become the laud of concord." 
■ — Lloyd's State Worthies, art. The Lord Grandison. 

Note 23, page 74. 
Liie the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword. 

See the Hymn, attributed to Alcaeus Ev fivprm x'KaSi to Sufoy ^opijau 
— "I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius and 
Aristogiton," &c. 

Note 24, page 78. 
Which near our planet smiling came. 

" Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single 
moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much 
more beneficial tlian they all put together." — Whiston's Theory, &c. 



IRISH MELODIES. 

In the enfretiens (TAriste, among other ingenious emblems, we find a 
starry sky without a moon, with these words, Kon milk, quod absens. 

Note 25, page 79. 

" The hrooh can see no moon but this." 

This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs some- 
where in Sir William Jones's works : " The moon looks upon many night- 
flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon." 

Note 26, page 80. 

A butterfly fresh from the night-flower's Jckses. 

An emblem of the soul. 



Note 27, page 83. 

May we pledge that horn in triumph round ! 

" The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In 



the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed Me.ndh out of them, 
hunters do their beverage at this dav." — AValkek. 



the Danish 



Note 28, page 86. 

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS. 

Meaning, allegorically, the ancient church of Ireland. 



Note 29, page 87. 
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too ! 
Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is libert'^- "—St. Paul, 2 Cor. 



NOTES. 

Note 30, page 91. 
77(6 cohl chain of Silence had Jntng o'er thee long. 
In that rebellious luit beautiful song, " When Erin first rose," there is, 
if I recollect right, the following line: — 

" The dark chain of Silence was thrown o'er the deep." 

The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among 
the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of " a celebrated contention for pre- 
cedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaini, where 
the attending bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hos- 
tilities, shook the Chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the 
ranks." See also the Ode to Gaul, the Son of Morni, in Miss Brooke's 
Reliqnes of Irish Poetry. 

Note 31, p.ige 94. 

THE prince's day. 

This song was written for a fete in honour of the Prince of Wales's 
birthday, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of 
Kilkenny. 

Note 32, p.age 99. 

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE. 

This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. 
Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy 
and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow. 

Note 33, page 99. 
iSty-lark never warbles o'er. 
There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which 
may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c. 



IRISH MELODIES. 
Note 34, page 102. 

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED. 

These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, 
who died lately at Madeir.a. 



Note 35, page 104. 
Than fo remember thee, MARY ! 

I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of 
Shenstone's, " Heu ! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui 
meminisse ! " 



Note 36, page 106. 
Avenging and bright fall the swift stoord of Erin. 

The words of this song were suggested by the veiy ancient Irish story 
called " Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach," which 
has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'Flanagan (see 
Vol. I. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it 
appears that the " Darthula of Macpherson " is founded. The treachery 
of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Osna, was 
the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the 
destruction of Eman. " This sfoiy (says Mr. O'Flanagan) has been, 
from time immemorial, held in high repute as one of tlie three tragic 
stories of the Irish. These are, 'The death of the children of Touran;' 
' The death of the children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Danans) ; 
and this, ' The death of the children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story.'' 
It will be recollected that, in the Second Number of these Melodies, 
there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir ; " Silent, 
oh Movie ! " &c. 

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity, which 
Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it 



would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic re- 
searches of this gcntlonian did not meet with all the liberal encourage- 
ment they merit. 

Note 37, page 106 

By the red cloud thai hung over Conor's dark dweUing. 

" Oh Nasi I view that cloud that I here see in the sky I I see over 
Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red." — Deidris Song. 

Note 38, page 106. 
Wien UlAD's three champions lay sleeping in gore. 
Ulster. 

Note 39, page 111. 

I think, oh my love ! 'th thy voice from the kingdom of souls. 

"There are countries," say.^ Montaigne, "where they believe the 

souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields ; and 

that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter which we call Echo." 

Note 40, page 112. 
Through Moena's grove, 
" Steals silently to Morna's grove." 
See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collection, by John- 
Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends ; whose death 
was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, 
honourable, and exemplary. 



Note 41, page 115. 

And neglected hi? task for the flowers on the way. 

Proposito florem prretulit officio. — Peopert. Lib. i. Eleg. 20. 



IRISH MELODIES. 



Note 42, page IIG. 

A triple grass. 

St. Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil, to 
which ill Ireland we give the name of Shamrock, in explaining the doc- 
trine of the Trinity to the Pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any 
other reason fur our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Uope, 
among the Ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, 
standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil, or three-coloured grass, in her hand. 



Note 43, page 119. 

ntlNCE OF BEEFFNI. 

These stanzas are founded upon an event ot most melancholy impor- 
tance to Ireland ; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave Eng. 
land the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. 
The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran : — "The 
king of Leinstcr had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, 
daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time 
married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his pas- 
sion. They carried on a private corresjiondence, and she informed him 
that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety fre- 
quent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of 
conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac 
Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed 
to his capital of Ferns." — The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of 
O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assist- 
ance of Henry II. 

" Such," adds Giraldus Canibrensis (as I find him in an old translation), 
"is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the 
world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus 
Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy." 



Note 44, page 121. 

YOU EEMEMBER ELLEN. 

. This ballad was suggested by a well-known an 
of a certain noble family in England. 



interesting story told 



Note 45, page 129. 
We've but to make love to the lips we are near. 
\ believe it is Marmontel who says, " Quand on n' a pas ce que Fon aimr, 
ilfaut aimer ce que V on a." — There are so many matter-of-faot people, who 
take such jeux d' esprit as this defence of inconstancy to be the actual 
and genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they compel one, 
in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them, 
that Democritus was not the worse physiologist for having playfully con- 
tended that snow was black ; nor Erasmus in any degree the less wise for 
having written an ingenious encomium of folly. 



Note 46, page 140. 
Been like our Lagrnian mine. 
Our Wicklow gold-mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, 
but too well the character here given of them. 



Note 47, page 140. 

Eos Hope, like the bird in the story. 

" The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman 

in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it ; but as 

he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," &c. — Arabian 

Nights — Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of China. 



IRISH MELODIES. 

Note 48, page 148. 
Like him the Sprite. 
This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say,' 
in the fields at dusk ; — as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is 
fixed, and in your power ; but the moment you look away (and he is in- 
genious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that 
this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority 
upon such subjects. Lady Morgan (in a note upon her national and in- 
teresting novel, O'Donnel), has given a very difierent account of that 
goblin. 

Note 49, page 159. 
At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd. 
"The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to 
the royal banner. 

Note 50, page 164. 

'Mid desolation tuneful still ! 

' Dimidio magicse resonant ubi llemnone chordiie." — Juvexal. 



Note 51, page 176. 

77/0' tlte nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them. 

" Tons les habitans de Mercure sont vifs." — Pluralite des Mondes. 

Note 52, page 177. 
And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you. 
" La Terre pourra Stre pour Venus I'etoile du berger et la mCre dcs 
amours, com me Venus Test pour nous." — Ibid. 



NOTES. 

Note 53, page 185. 
Yes, sad one of SlON, if closely resembling. 
These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamil- 
ton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews. 

Note 54, page 185. 

And " while it is day yet, her sun hath gone doton." 

" Her sun is gone down while it was yet day." — Jee. xv. 9. 

Note 55, page 186. 
Ah, well may we call her like thee " the Forsaken.'' 
" Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken." — Isaiah, Ixii. 4. 

Note 56, page 186. 

Wlicn that cup, which for others the proud Golden City. 

"How hath the oppressor ceased I the golden city ceased!" — Isaiah, 
xiv. 11. 

Note 57, page 186. 

And, a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover. 

"Thy pomp is brought down to the grave and the worms cover 

thee."— Isaiah, xiv. 4. 

Note 58, page 186. 

The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust. 

" Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."— Isaiah, 
xlvii. 5. 



IRISH MELODIES. 

Note 59, page 189. 
Oh, ye Dead 1 oh, ye Dead ! whom we know by the light you give. 
Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ire- 
land, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands wallr 
about and converse with those tliey meet, like living people. If asked 
why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go 
to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately. 



Note 60, page 197. 
/ wish I was by thai dim Lahe. 

These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, 
called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy regions of 
Donegal (says Dr. Camphell) lay a lake, which was' to become the mystic 
theatre of this ftibled and intermediate state. In the lake were several 
islands ; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Pur- 
gatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christen- 
dom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every coun- 
try in Europe." 

" It was," as the same writer tells us, " one of the most dismal and 
dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through deep glens and 
rugged mountains, frightful with impending rocks, and the hollow mur- 
murs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such fan- 
tastic beings as the mind, however gay, is, from strange association, wont 
• to appropriate to such gloomy scenes." — Strictures on the Ecclesiastical and 
Literary History of Ireland. 



Note 61, page 203. 

't was one op those dreams, that by music are brought. 

Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney. 



Note 62, page 206. 

He hath been won down bij them. 

In describing the Skeliga (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating 

says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down 

all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon 

the rock." 

Note 63, page 206. 

Lai:cs, where the pearl lies hid. 

" Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abun- 
dance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind 
their ears ; and this we find confirmed by a present made, A. C. 1094, by 
Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a 
considerable quantity of Irish pearls." — O'Hallokan. 

Note 64, page 206. 
Glens, where Ocean comes. 
Olengariff. 

Note 65, page 208. 
And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more. 
Jours charraans, quand je songe a vos beureux iustans, 
Je pense remonter le fleuve de mes ans ; 
Et mon cceur enchantisur sa rive fleurie 
Respire encore I'air pur du matin de la vie. 

Note 66, page 208. 
Is all we enjoy of each other in this. 
The same thought has been happily expressed by my friend Mr. Wash- 
ington Irving, in his Bracebridffe Hall, Vol. I. page 213. The pleasure 



IRISH MELODIES. 

wbidi I feel in calling this gentleman my friend, is much enhanced by 
the reflection that he is too good an American to have admitted me so 
readily to such a distinction, if he had not known that my feelings to- 
wards the great and free country that give him birth have long been such 
as every real lover of the liberty and happiness of the human race must 
entertain. 



Note 67, page 210. 

And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost ! 

It is only the two first verses that are either fitted or intended to be 



Note 68, page 213. 

DESMOND'S SONG. 

" Thomas, the beir of the Desmond femily, bad accidently been so en- 
gaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take 
shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called 
Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly in- 
spired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He 
married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose 
brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable de- 
gradation of bis family." — Leland, Vol. II. 



Note 69, page 215. 
Lihe him, the boy, tv/io born among. 
The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians. 



Note 70, page 221. 
As from a parting spirit, came. 

The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines in Mr. Eogers's 
Poem of Human Life, beginning — 

" Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows 
Less and less earthly." 

I would quote the entire passage, but that I fear to put my own humble 
imitation of it out of countenance 



Note 71, page 225. 
The wine-ci/p is circling in Almhin's hall. 

The palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. 
It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the 
name of the Hill of Allen, in the County of Kildare. The Finians, or 
Fcnii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief 
commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an 
anarchronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends. 

Note 72, page 226. 
And the Sun-burst o'er them floated ivide. 
The name given to the banner of the Irish. 



Note 73, page 231. 
Thy Maiadg prepare his steed for him. 

The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White 
Horse may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully 
detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit 
of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of May-day, 



IRISH MELODIES. 

gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet 
unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who 
flung wreaths of delicate spring-flowers in his path. 

Among other stories connected with this Legend of the Lakes, it is said 
that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so im- 
pressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself 
in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, 
threw herself into the lake. 

Note 74, page 232. 
When Tiewly launch'd, thy long mane curls. 
The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy 
day, crested with foam, " O'Donohue's white horses." 



Note 75, page 237. 
Was like that rock of the Druid race. 
The Eocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to 
dislodge from their stations. 

Note 76, page 238. 
" Our destin'd home or grave f" 

" Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal 
Druid^ who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the pos- 
session of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit." — 
Keating. 

Note 77, page 238. 
"'Tis Innif ail— 'tis Innkfail !" 
The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland. 



Note 78, page 241. 
Which dreaming poets sing. 

" The inhabitants of Arranniore are still pursuaded that, in a clear day, 
they can see from this coast Hy Brysail, or the Enchanted Island, the 
Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number 
of romantic stories." — Beaufokt's Ancient Typography of Ireland. 



Note 79, page 243. 

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS. 

It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these lines 
are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and 
valued colleague in this work. Sir John Stevenson. 



Note 80, page 245. 
Lai/ his siBord by his side — it hath serv'd him too luell. 
It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, 
to bury the favourite swords of their heroes along with them. 



AMERICAN POEMS. 



NOTES TO AMERICAN POEMS. 



Note 1, page 284. 
Fragments of Voyages and Travels, Vol. II. Chap. vi. 

Note 2, page 288. 
The Commodore of the Lakes, as he is styled. 

Note 3, page 288. 
The two first sentences of this paragraph, as well as a passage that oc- 
curs in a subsequent paragraph, stood originally as part of the Notes on 
one of the American Poems. 

Note 4, page 290. 
Introduced in the Epistle to Lady Charlotte Eawdon. 

Note 5, page 290. 
This brave and amiable officer was killed at Queenstown, in Upper 
Canada, soon after the commencement of the war with America, in the 
year 1812. He was in the act of cheering on his men when he fell. The 
inscription on the monument raised to his memory, on Queenstown 
Heights, does but due honor to his manly character. 

Note 6, page 292. 

•'It is singularly gratifying," the author adds, "to discover that, to this 

hour, the Canadian voijageurs never omit their offerings to the shrine of 



St. Anne, before engaging in any enterprise; and that, during its per- 
formance, they omit no opportunity of keeping up so propitious an inter- 
course. The flourishing village which surrounds the church on the 'Green 
Isle ' in question owes its existence and support entirely to these pious 
contributions." 

Note 7, page 297. 
This Preface, as well as the Dedication which precedes it, were prefixed 
originally to the miscellaneous volume entitled "Odes and Epistles," of 
which, hitherto, the poems relating to my American tour have formed a 
part. 

Note 8, page 305. 
SiKet MIoon ! if, like Crotona's sage. 
Pythagoras; who was supposed to have a power of writing upon the 
moon by the means of a magic mirror. — See Bayle, art. Pi/thag. 



Note 9, page 307. 
Or pant to be a loanderer more! 
Alluding to these animated lines in the 44th Carmen of Catullus: 



Jam mens prsetrepidans avet vagari, 
Jam Iseti studio pedes vigescuntl 



Note 10, page 308. 

Hath hung its shade on PiCO's height, 

A very high mountain on one of the Azores, from which the island 
derives its name. It is said by some to be as high as the Peak of Ten- 
eriffe. 



AMERICAN POEMS. 

Note 11, page 308. 
To tell of young Azorian maids. 

I believe it is Guthrie who says, that the inhabitants of the Azores are 
much addicted to gallantry. This is an assertion in which even Guthrie 
may be credited. 

Note 12, page 309. 
And gave, all glowing warm, to thine. 
These islands belong to the Portuguese. 

Note 13, page 312. 

TO THE FLYING PISH. 

It is the opinion of St. Austin upon Genesis, and I believe of nearly 
all the Fathers, that birds, like fish, were originally produced from the 
waters; in defence of which idea they have collected every fanciful cir- 
cumstance which can tend to prove a kindred similitude between them; 
ouy yfnta> Toij TUtojiivMi jtpof ta, vrixta. With this thought in our minds, 
when we first see the Flying Fish, we could almost fancy, that we are 
present at the moment of creation, and witness the birth of the first bird 
from the waves. 

Note 14, page 323. 
Alas, not yet one gleaming trace ! 
Such romantic works as "The American Farmer's Letters," and the 
account of Kentucky by Imlay, would seduce us into a belief, that inno- 
cence, peace, and freedom had deserted the rest of the world for Martha's 
Vineyard and the banks of the Ohio. The French travellers, too, almost 
all from revolutionary motives, have contributed their share to the diffu- 
sion of this flattering misconception. A visit to the country is, however, 
quite sufficient to correct even the most enthusiastic prepossession. 



Note 15, page 323. 
Blame not (he temple's meanest part, 
Norfolk, it must be owned, presents an unfavorable specimen of Amer- 
ica. The characteristics of Virginia in general are not such as can delight 
either the politician or the moralist, and at Norfolk they are exhibited in 
their least attractive form. At the time when we arrived the yellow fever 
had not yet disappeared, and every odor that assailed us in the streets very 
strongly accounted for its visitation. 



Note 16, page 324. 

The simple strain I send you here. 

A trifling attempt at musical composition accompanied this Epistle. 



Bermuda. 



Note 17, page 325. 
Shall light me to my destin'd isle. 



Note 18, page 326. 

''And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp." 

The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, 

and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drum- 

mond's Pond. 

Note 19, page 330. 
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads. 
Lady Donegal!, I had reason to suppose, was at this time still in Swit- 
zerland, where the well-known powers of .her pencil must have been fre- 
quently awal 



AMERICAN POEMS. 

Note 20, page 330. 
Mark the last shadoiv on that holy shrine. 
The chapel of William Tell on the Lake of Lucerne. 

Note 21, page 332. 
For happy spirits in th' Atlantic waste ? 
M. Gebelin says, in his Monde Primitif, "Lorsque Strabon crAt que les 
anciens theologiens et poetes plagoient les champs 61ys6es dans les isles 
de 1' Ocean Atlantique, il n'entendit rien a leur doctrine." M. Gebelin's 
supposition, I have no doubt, is the more correct; but that of Strabo is, 
in the present instance, most to my purpose. 

Note 22, page 332. 
The fairy harbor woo'd us to its arms. 

Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbor of St. George's. 
The number of beautiful islets, the singular clearness of the water, and 
the animated play of the graceful little boats, gliding forever between the 
islands, and seeming to sail from one cedar grove into another, formed 
altogether as lovely a miniature of nature's beauties as can well be im- 
agined. 

Note 23, page 333. 
The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch. 
This is an allusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge 
in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. In the 
short but beautiful twilight of their spring evenings, the white cottages, 
scattered over the islands, and but partially seen through the trees that 
surround them, assume often the appearance of little Grecian temples; 
and .a vivid fancy may embellish the poor iisherman's hut with columns 



such as the pencil of a Claude might imitate. I had one favourite object 
of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me 
of, by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me 
well and warmly, but I coukl never turn his house into a Grecian temple 
again. 

Note 24, page 335. 

TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ., OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA. 

This gentleman is attached to the British consulate at Norfolk. His 
talents are worthy of a much higher sphere ; but the excellent dispositions 
of the family with whom he resides, and the cordial repose he enjoys 
amongst some of the kindest hearts in the world, should be almost enough 
to atone to him for the worst caprices of fortune. The consul himself. 
Colonel Hamilton, is one among the very few instances of a man, ardently 
loyal to his king, and yet beloved by the Americans. His house is the 
very temple of hospitality, and I sincerely pity the heart of that stranger, 
who, warm from the welcome of such a board, could sit down to write 
a libel on his host, in the true spirit of a modern philosophist. See the 
Travels of the Duke de la Rouchefoucault Liancourt, Vol. II. 



Note 25, page 335. 
Forsook me in this rude alarm. 

We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, during 
three of which we were forced to lay-to in a gale of wind. The Driver 
sloop of war, in which I went, was built at Bermuda of cedar, and is ac- 
counted an excellent sea boat. She was then commanded by my very 
regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed aboard the 
Lilly in an action with a French privateer. Poor Compton ! he fell a vic- 
tim to the strange impolicy of allowing such a miserable thing as the 
Lilly to remain in the service; so small, crank, and unmanageable, that 
a well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her. 



AMERICAN POEiMS. 

Note 26, page 336. 
Sweet is your Hss^ my Lais dear. 
This epigram is by Paul the Silentiary, and may be found in the Ana- 
lecta of Brunck, Vol. III. p. 72. As the reading there is somewliat dif- 
ferent from what I have followed in this translation, I shall give it as I 
had it in my memory at the time, and as it is in Heinsius, who, I believe, 
first produced the epigram. See his Poemata. 

'H^u fiitv toTt (piXnfia TO AaiSoi* i)iv 6e avToyi 

H-n'to6ii>T}TWi' 6aKpv x^^'S P\t'l>apojVf 
Kfli TTo\v Ktx\i^ov(Ta (ToSeis tvSoarpvXov aiyXrji', 

'VlpitTCpa KEipaXijv Srjpov ipticapcvri 
Mvpoficyrju y £<pi\r]i7a' ra S' wj SpoiTEpTis airo nnyriSj 

dtaKpva piyi/vpcvoii^ irnrrc Kara aro^aTOiV 
EiTTC d' avtipopzviOy Tii'O^ ovi'CKa SaKpva XztStt^ ; 

Aetdia jir) fxc Xitt^jj" earc yap opKaTrarai. 

Note 27, page 337. 
The coral rods they love to steep. 

The water is so clear around tlie island, that the rocks are seen beneath 
to a very great depth; and, as we entered the harbor, they appeared to 
us SO' near the surfare that it seemed impossible we should not strike on 
them. There is no necessity, of course, for heaving the lead; and the 
negro pilot, looking down at the rocks from the bow of the ship, takes 
her thniugh this dilBcult navigation, with a skill and confidence which 
seem to astonish some of the oldest sailors. 

Note 28, page 338. 

for the pinnace lent to thee. 

In Kircher's " Ecstatic Journey to Heaven," Cosmiel, the genius of the 
world, gives Theodidactus, a boat of asbestos, with which he embarks into 
the regions of the sun. " Vides (says Cosmiel) banc asbestinam naviculam 
commoditati tuje proeparatam." — liinerar.'I. Dial. i. cap. 5. This work 
of 'Kirclier abounds with strange fancies. 



Note 29, page 338. 
Within thy orb's ambrosial round/ 

When the Genius of the world and his fellow-traveller arrive at the 
planet Venus, they find an island of loveliness, full of odors and intelli- 
gences, where angels preside, who shed the cosmetic influence of this 
planet over the earth ; such being, according to astrologers, the " vis in- 
fluxiva" of Venus. When they are in this part of the heavens, a ca.su- 
istical question occurs to Theodidactus, and he asks, " Whether baptism 
may be performed with the waters of Venus?" — "An aquis globi Veneris 
baptismus institui possit?" to which the Genius answers, "Certainly." 

Note 30, page 338. 
That each appears a living star. 
This idea is Father Kircher's. "Tot animates soles dixisses." — Itincrar. 
I. Dial. i. cap. 5. 

Note 31, page 851. 
Through that serene, luxurious shade. 
Gassendi thinks that the gardens, which Pausanias mentions, in his first 
book, were those of Epicurus; and Stuart says, in his Antiquities of 
Athens, "Near this convent (the convent of Hagios Asomatos) is the 
place called at. present Kepoi, or the Gardens ; and Ampelos Kepos, or 
the Vineyard Garden: these were probably the gardens which Pausanias 
visited." Vol. I. Chap. 2. 

Note 32, page 352. 
Have platj'd with, wear a smoother whiteness. 

This method of polishing pearls, by leaving them a while to be played 
with by doves, is mentioned by the fanciful Cardanus, de Eerum Varietat. 
lib. vii. cap. 34. 



AMERICAN POEMS. 

Note 33, page 353. 
Along the traveller's weary way. 
In Hercynio Germanise saltu inusitata genera alitum accepimus, quarun 
plunise, ignium niodo, colluceant noctibus. — Plin. lib. x. cap. 47. 



Note 34, page 353. 
Or wanton'd in Milesian story. 
The Milesiacs, or Milesian fables, had their origin in Miletus, a luxu- 
rious town of Ionia. Aristides was the most celebrated author of these 
licentious fictions. See Plutarch (in Crasso) who calls them o.xo^a'ita. 

Note 35, page 354. 

Po^iring the flowery wines of Crete. 

"Some of the Cretan wines, which Athenseus calls oiko; avdoafnai, from 

their fragrancy resembling that of the finest flowers." — Barry on Wines, 

Chap. vii. 

Note 36, page 354. 

The onyx shone beneath their feet. 

It appears that in very splendid mansions, the floor or pavement was 

frequently of onyx. Thus Martial: "Calcatusque tuo sub pede lucet 

onyx." — Epig. 50. lib. sii. 

Note 37, page 354. 

latwin'd by snakes of bumish'd gold. 

Bracelets of this shape were a fovourite ornament among the women of 

antiquity. Ol trtixapjtioi o<p!iS xai al ;fpii5ai. «fSai @ai&o; xui Apioroyopaj 

xai Aat&o; fap/iaxa. — P/iiloslrat. Ejiist. xl. Lutian, too, tells us of the 



f3pa;i;io«ii Sfiaxovtti- See bis Amores, wbere he describes the dressing 
room of a Grecian lady, and we find the "silver vase," the rouge, the 
tooth powder, and all the "mystic order" of a modern toilet. 

Note 38, page 354. 
Through many a thin Tarentian fold. 
TaparrtrcStoi', Sia-fanj- tvhv^ia^ toro^aff/iffor arto -fays' Tapwj'ttvuv ;tp'?'7fwi 
xai rpv*)js. — Pollux. 

Note 39, page 354. 

And the yomiij bee grape, round tliem wreathing. 

Apiana, mentioned by Pliny, Lib. XIV. and "now called the Muscatell 
(a mascarum telis)," says Pancirollus, Book I. Sect. 1, Chap. 17. 

Note 40, page 355. 

To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves. 

I had, at this time, some idea of paying a visit to the West Indies. 

Note 41, page 355. 
Farewell to BERMUDA, and long may the bloom. 

The inhabitants pronounce the name as if it were written Bermooda. 
See the commentators on the words "still-vex'd Bermoothes," in the 
Tempest. — I wonder it did not occur to some of those all-reading gen- 
tlemen that, possibly, the discoverer of this "island of hogs and devils" 
might have been no less a personage than the great John Bermudez, 
who, about the same period (the beginning of the sixteenth century), 
was sent Patriarch of the Latin church to Ethiopia, and has left us 
most wonderful stories of the Amazons and the Griffins which he 
encountered. — Travels of the Jesuits, Vol. I. I am afraid, however, that it 
would take the Patriarch rather too much out of his way. 



AMERICAN POEMS. 

Note 42, page 355. 
IVhere ARIEL has warbled and WALLER has strayed. 
Jolinson does not think that Waller was ever at Bermuda; but the 
"Account of the European settlements in America" affirms it confidently. 
(Vol. II.) I mention this work, however, less for its authority than for 
the pleasure I feel in quoting an unacknowledged production of the great 
Edmund Burke. 

Note 43, page 359. 
While many a bending seagrape drank. 
Tlie seaside or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies. 

Note 44, page 360. 

That, like the aloe's lingering flowers. 

The Agave. This, I am aware, is an erroneous notion, but it is quite 

true enough for poetry. Plato, I think, allows a poet to be "three removes 

from truth;" rpiruros ano trji a'ktjOiLaf. 

Note 45, p.age 363. 
It .<<ecnis in careless plag to lie. 
Somewhat like the symplegma of Cupid and Psyche at Florence, in 
which the position of Psyche's hand is finely and delicately expressive of 
affection. See the Museum Flprentinum, torn. ii. tab. 43, 44. There are 
few subjects on which poetry could be more interestingly employed than 
in illustrating some of these ancient statues and gems. 

Note 46, page 365. 

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., FROM BERMUDA. 

Pinkerton has said that "a good history and description of the Bermu- 
das might afford a pleasing addition to the geograpical library;" but 



there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since the 
time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people 
have heen so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is but little 
which the historian could amplify into importance; and, witli respect to 
the natural productions of the country, the few which the inhabitants can 
be induced to cultivate are so common in the West Indies, that they have 
been described by every naturalist who has written any account of those 
islands. 

It is often asserted by the transatlantic politicians that this little colony 
deserves more attention from the mother country than it receives, and it 
certainly possesses advantages of situation, to which we should not be 
long insensible, if it were once in the hands of an enemy. I was told by 
a celebrated friend of Washington, at New York, that they had formed a 
plan for its capture towards the conclusion of the American AVar; "with 
the intention (as he expressed himself) of making it a nest of hornets for 
the annoyance of British trade in that part of the world." And there is 
no doubt it lies so conveniently in the track to the West Indies, that an 
enemy niig-ht with ease convert it into a very harassing impediment. 

The plan of Bishop Berkeley for a college at Bermuda, where American 
savages might be converted and educated, though concurred in by the gov- 
ernment of the day, was a wild and useless speculation. Mr. Hamilton, 
who was governor of the island some years since, proposed, if I mistake 
not, the establishment of a marine academy for the instruction of those 
children of West Indians, who might be intended for any nautical em- 
ployment. This was a more rational idea, and for something of this nature 
the island is admirably calculated. But the plan should be much more 
extensive, and embrace a general system of education; which would re- 
lieve the colonists from the alternative to which they are reduced at 
present, of either sending their sons to England for instruction, or intrust- 
ing them to colleges in the states of America, where ideas, by no means 
favourable to Great Britain, are very sedulously inculcated. 

The women of Bermuda, though not generally handsome, have an affec- 
tionate languor in their look and manner, which is always interesting. 



AMERICAN POEMS.- 

What the French imply by their epithet aimante seems very much the 
character of the young Bermudian girls — that predisposition to loving, 
which, without being awakened by any particular object, ditfuses itself 
through the general manner in a tone of tenderness that never fails to 
fascinate. The men of the island, I confess, are not very civilized; and 
the old philosopher, who imagined that, after this life, men would be 
changed into mules, and' women into turtle-doves, would find the meta- 
morphosis in some degree anticipated at Bermuda. 



Note 47, page 366. 

Of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills. 

Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first inventor of bucolic 
poetry, was nursed by the nymphs. See the lively description of these 
mountains in Diodorus Siculus, lib. iv. 'Hpaia yap opj; xo-ra tjjv 'S.ixiXiav 
tatir, a. ^aai, xaXXfi, v. f. %. 

Note 48, page 367. 
The bark that's to carry these pages away. 
A ship, ready to sail for England. 

Note 49, page 368. 

THE steersman's SONG. 

I left Bermuda in the Boston about the middle of April, in company 
with the Cambrian and Leander, aboard the latter of which was the Ad- 
miral, Sir Andrew Mitchell, who divides his year between Halifax and 
Bermuda, and is the very soul of society and good fellowship to both. 
We seitarated in a few days, and the Boston after a short cruise proceeded 
to New York. 



Note 50, page 369. 

TO THE FIREFLY. 

The lively and varying illumination, with which these fireflies light up 
the woods at night, gives quite an idea of enchantment. "Puis ces 
mouches se develloppant de I'ob scurite de ces -arbres et s'approcliant de 
nous, nous les voyjons sur les orangers voisius, qu'ils mettoient tout en 
feu, nous rendant la vue de leurs beaux fruits dor& que la nuit avoit 
ravie," &c. &c. — See L'Histoire des Antilles, art. 2, chap. 4, liv. i. 

Note 51, page 372. 

"Shall crmh the giants that bestride 7nantind." 

Thus Morse; "Here the sciences and the arts of civilized life are to 
receive their highest improvements : here civil and religious liberty are to 
flourish, unchecked by the cruel hand of civil or ecclesiastical tyranny: 
here genius, aided by all the improvements of former ages, is to be ex- 
erted in humanizing mankind, in expanding and enriching their minds 
with religious and philosophical knowledge," &c. &c. — P. 569. 



Note 52, page 373. 

She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime. 

" Whiit will be the old age of this government, if it is thus early de- 
crepit!" Such was the remark of Fauchet, the French minister at Phil- 
adelphia, in that famous dispatch to his government, which was inter- 
cepted by one of our cruisers in the year 1794. This curious memorial 
may be found in Porcupine's Works, vol. i. p. 279. It remains a striking 
monument of republican intrigue on one side and republican proflig.icy 
on the other ; and I would recommend the perusal of it to every honest 
politician, who may labor under a moment's delusion with respect to the 
purity of American patriotism. 



AMERICAN POEMS. 

Note 53, page 375. 

To rise and fail, like other wares of trade. 

"Nous voyons que, dans les pays oi I'on n'est affecte que de 1' esprit de 

commerce, on trafique de toutes les actions liumaines et de toutes les 

vertus morales." — Montesquieu, de I' Esprit des Lois, liv. xx. chap. 2. 

Note 54, page 375. 
From England's debtors to be England's foes. 
I trust I shall not be suspected of a wish to justify those arbitrarj' steps 
of the English government which the colonies found it so necessary to re- 
sist; my only object here is to expose the selfish motives of some of the 
leading American demagogues. 

Note 55, page 375. 
And break allegiance, but to cancel debt. 
The most persevering enemy to the interests of this country, amongst 
the politicians of the western world, has been a Virginian merchant, who, 
finding it easier to settle his conscience than his debts, was one of the 
first to raise the standard against Great Britain, and has ever since en- 
deavored to revenge upon the whole country the obligations which he 
lies under to a few of its merchants. 

Note 56, page 375. 
Which makes a patriot, can unmake him too. 

See Porcupine's account of the Pennsylvania Insurrection in 1794. In 
short, see Porcupine's works throughout, for ample corroboration of every 
sentiment which I have ventured to express. In saying this, I refer less 
to the comments of that writer than to the occurrences which he has re- 
lated and the documents which he has preserved. Opinion may be sus- 
pected of bias, but facts speak for themselves. 



NOTES. 

Note 57, page 376. 
Of slaving blacks and democratic whites. 

In Virginia the effects of this system begin to be felt rather seriously 
While the master raves of liberty, the slave cannot but catch the conta- 
gion, and accordingly there seldom elapses a month without some alarm 
of insurrection amongst the negroes. The accession of Louisiana, it is 
feared, will increase this embarrassment; as the numerous emigrations, 
which are expected to take place, from the southern states to this newly- 
acquired territory, will considerably diminish the white population, and 
thus strengthen the proportion of negroes, to a degree which must ulti- 
mately be ruinous. 

Note 58, page 378. 
And dream of freedom in his bondmaid's arms. 

The "black Aspasia" of the present * * * * of the United States, 
inter Avernales haud ignotissima nymphas, has given rise to much pleas- 
antry among the anti-democrat wits of America. 

Note 59, page 378. 
Come, let me lead thee o'er (his "second Home!" 
" On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of the 
Federal City (says Mr. Weld) the identical spot on which the capitol 
now stands was called Rome. This anecdote is related by many as a cer- 
tain prognostic of the future magnificence of the city, which is to be, as 
it were, a second Kome." — Weld's Travels, letter iv. 

Note 60, page 378. 
And what was Goose Creek once is Tiber now. 
A little stream runs through the city, which, with intolerable affectation, 
they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose Creek. 



AMERICAN POEMS. 

Note 61, page 379. 
Though nought but woods and J n they see. 

"To be under tlie necessity of going tlirougli a deep wood for one or 
two miles, perliaps, in order to see a next-door neighbor, and in the same 
city, is a curious, and, I believe, a novel circumstance." — Weld, letter iv. 

The Federal City (if it must be called a city) has not been much in- 
creased since Mr. Weld visited it. Most of the public buildings, which 
were then in some degree of forwardness, have been since utterly sus- 
pended. The hotel is already a ruin; a great part of its roof has fallen 
in, and the rooms are left to be occupied gratuitously by the miserable 
Scotch and Irish emigrants. The President's house, a very noble struct- 
ure, is by no means suited to the philosophical humility of its present 
possessor, who inhabits but a corner of the mansion himself, and aban- 
dons the rest to a state of uncleanly desolation, which those who are not 
philosophers cannot look at without regret. This grand edifice is encir- 
cled by a very rude paling, through which a common rustic stile intro- 
duces the visitors of the first man in America. With respect to all that 
is within the house, I shall imitate the prudent forbearance of Herodotus, 
and say, to. &£ iv artoppjjru. 

The private buildings exhibit the same characteristic display of arro- 
gant speculation and premature ruin ; and the few ranges of houses which 
were begun some years ago have remained so long waste and unfinished 
that they are now for the most part dilapidated. 



Note 62, page 379. 

Iti own half-organized, half-minded race. 

The picture which Bufibn and De Pauw have drawn of the American 
Indian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more 
correct than the flattering representations which Mr. Jefferson has given 
us. See the Notes on Virginia, where this gentleman endeavors to dis- 



prove in general the opinion maintained so strongly by some philosophers 
that nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it) belitiks her productions in tlie 
western world. M. de Pauw attributes the imperfection of animal life in 
America to the ravages of a very recent deluge, from whose effects upon 
its soil and atmosphere it has not yet sufficiently recovered. — £eclicrc/ieK 
sur les Amtricains, Part I. torn i. p. 102. 



Note 63, page 380. 
The sculpinr\l image of that veteran chief. 
On a small hill near the capitol there is to be an equestrian statue of 
General Washington. 



Note 64, page 382. 

With inc shall wonder, and with me despise. 

In the ferment which the French revolution excited among the demo- 
crats of America, and the licentious sympathy with which they shared in 
the wildest excesses of jacobinism, we may find one source of that vul- 
garity of vice, that hostility to all the graces of life, which distinguishes 
the present demagogues of the United States, and has become indeed too 
generally the characteristic of their countrymen. But there is another 
cause of the corruption of private morals, which, encouraged as it is by 
the government, and identified with the interests of the community, seems 
to threaten the decay of all honest principle in America. I allude to 
those fraudulent violations of neutrality to which they are indebted for 
the most lucrative part of their commerce, and by which they have so 
long infringed and counteracted the maritime rights and advantages of 
this country. This unwarrantable trade is necessarily abetted by such a 
system of collusion, imposture, and perjury, as cannot fail to spread rapid 
contamination around it. 



AMERICAN POEMS. 
Note 65, page 386. 

riNES WRITTEN AT THE COHOES, OR FALLS OF THE MOHAWK RIVER. 

There is a dreary and savage character in the country immediately 
about these Falls, which is much more in harmony with the wildness of 
such a scene than the cultivated lands in the neighborhood of Niagara. 
See the drawing of them in Mr. Weld's book. According to him, the per- 
pendicular height of the Cohoes Fall is fifty feet; but the Marquis de 
Chastellux makes it seventy-six. 

The fine rainbow, which is continually forming and dissolving, as the 
spray rises into the light of the sun, is perhaps the most interesting beauty 
which these wonderfnl cataracts exhibit. 



Note 66, page 888. 

SONG OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS. 

The idea of this poem occurred to me in passing through the very 
dreary wilderness between Batavia, a new settlement in the midst of the 
woods, and the little village of Buffalo upon Lake Erie. This is the most 
fatiguing part of the route, in travelling through the Genesee country to 
Niagara. 

Note 67, page 388. 

Think, 'twas once the Indian's home/ 

The Five Confederated Nations (of Indians) were settled along the 
banks of the Susquehannah and the adjacent country, until the year 1779, 
when General Sullivan, with an army of 4000 men, drove tliem from their 
country to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on salted provisions, to 
which they were unaccustomed, great numbers of tlicm died. Iwo hun- 
dred of them, it is said, were buried in one grave, where they had en- 
camped." — -Morse's American Geography. 



Note 68, page 3S9. 

And the cayman loves to creep. 

The alligator, who is supposed to lie in a torpid state all the winter, in 

the bank of some creek or pond, having previously swallowed a large 

number of pine knots, which are his only sustenance during the time. 

Note 69, page 389. 
And the shuddering murderer sits. 
This was the mode of punishment for murder (as Charlevoix tells us) 
among the Hurons. "They laid the dead body upon poles at the top of 
a cabin, and the murderer was obliged to remain several days together, 
and to receive all that dropped from the carcass, not only on himself but 
on his food." 

Note 70, page 390. 
To the Fiend presiding there! 
" We find also collars of porcelain, tobacco, ears of maize, skins, &c. by 
the side of difficult and dangerous ways, on rocks, or by the side of the 
falls; and these are so many offerings made to the spirits which preside 
in these places." — See Chaklevoix's Letter on the Traditions and the Re- 
ligion of the Savages of Canada. 

Father Hennepin too mentions this ceremony; he also says, "We took 
notice of one barbarian, who made a kind of sacrifice upon an oak at 
the Cascade of St. Antony of Padua, upon the river Mississippi." — See 
f's Voyage into North America. 



Note 71, page 392. 

Bright lakes expand, and conquering rivers floxo. 

This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking description of the 

confluence of the aiissouri with the Mississippi. "I believe this is the 



AMERICAN POEMS. 

finest confluence in the world. The two rivers are much of the same 
breadth, each about half a league ; but the Missouri is by far the most 
rapid, and seems to enter the Mississippi like a conqueror, through which 
it carries its white waves to the opposite shore, without mixing them: 
afterwards it gives its color to the Mississippi, which it never loses again, 
but carries quite down to the sea."— Letter xxvii. 



Note 72, page 393. 
But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there. 
AUuding to the fanciful notion of " words congealed in northern 



Note 73, page 394. 
' Twos bliss to live with, and 't was pain to leave. 
In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at Philadelphia, I passed 
the few agreeable moments which my tour through the states aflTorded me. 
Mr. Dennie has succeeded in diffusing through this cultivated little circle 
that love for good literature and sound politics, which he feels so zealously 
himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic of his countrymen. 
They will not, I trust, accuse me of illiberality for the picture which I 
have given of the ignorance and corruption that surround them. If I did 
not hate, as I ought, the rabble to which they are opposed, I could not 
value, as I do, the spirit with which they defy it; and in learning from 
them what Americans can be, I but see with the more indignation what 
Americans are. 

Note 74, page 398. 

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG. 

I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sung to us frequently. 
The wind was so unfavorable that they were obliged to row all the way. 



and we were five daj's in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, 
exposed to an intense sun during tlie day, and at niglit forced to take 
shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would 
receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all 
such difficulties. 

Our voyageurs had good voices, and sung perfectly in tune together. 
The original words of the air, to which I adapted these stanzas, appeared 
to be a long, incoherent story, of which I could understand but little, 
from the barbarous pronunciation of the Canadians. It begins, 

Dans mon chemin j'ai rencontrS 
Deux cavaliers tres-bien montfis; 

And the refrain to every verse was, 

A I'ombre d'un bois je m'en vais jouer, 
A Fombre d'un bois je m'en vais danser. 

I ventured to harmonize this air, and have published it. Without that 
charm whijh association gives to every little memorial of scenes or feel- 
ings that are past, the melody may, perhaps, be thought common and tri- 
fling; but I remember when we have entered, at sunset, upon one of those 
beautiful lakes, into which the St. Lawrence so grandly and unexpectedly 
opens, I have heard this simple air with a pleasure which the finest com- 
positions of the first masters have never given me; and now there is not 
a note of it which does not recall to my memory the dip of our oars in 
the St. Lawrence, the flight of our boat down the Eapids, and all those 
new and fanciful impressions to which my heart was alive during the 
whole of this very interesting voyage. 

These stanzas are supposed to be sung by those voyageiirs who go to the 
Grand Porta -e by the Utawas River. For an account of this wonderful 
undertaking, see Sir Alexander Mackenzie's General History of the Fur 
Trade, prefixed to his Journal. 



AMERICAN POEMS. 

Note 75, page 398. 
We 'II sing at St. Ann's otir parting hymn. 
"At the Eapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the 
whole, of their lading. It is from this spot the Canadians consider they 
take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which 
is dedicated to the tutelar saint of voyagers." — Mackenzie, General His- 
tory of the Far Trade. 

Note 76, page 401. 
Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf. 
" Avendo essi per costume di avere in venerazione gli alberi grandi et 
antichi, quasi che siano spesso ricettaccoli di anime beate." — Pietro delta 
Valle, part, second., lettera 16 da giardini di Sciraz. 

Note 77, page 403. 
And I can trace him, like a watery star 
Anburey, in his Travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which 
porpoises diffuse at night through the river St. Lawrence. — Vol. I. p. 29. 

Note 78, page 403. 
And the smooth glass snake, gliding o'er my way. 
The glass snake is brittle and transparent. 

Note 79, page 403. 

Where, transform'd to sacred doves. 

" The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according 

to some, it is transformed into a dove." — Charlevoix, -upon he Traditions 

and the Religion of the Savages of Canada. See the curious fable of the 

American Orjiheus in Lafitau, torn. i. p. 402. 



NOTES. 

Note 80, page 403. 

As those wondrous stones of light. 

"The mountains appeared to be sprinkled with white stones, which 

glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians manetoe aseniah, or 

spirit stones." — Mackenzie's Journal. 

Note 81, page 404. 
Looks as if it hung in air. 
These lines were suggested by Carver's description of one of the Amer- 
ican lakes. "When it was calm," he says, "and the sun shone bright, I 
could sit in my canoe, where the depth was upwards of six fathoms, and 
plainly see huge piles of stone at the bottom, of different shapes, some of 
which appeared as if they had been hewn; the water was at this time as 
pure and transparent as air, and ray canoe seemed as if it hung suspended 
in that element. It was impossible to look attentively through this limpid 
medium, at the rocks below, without finding, before many minutes were 
elapsed, your head swim and your eyes no longer able to behold the daz- 
zling scene. 

Note 82, page 404. 
Through the Manataulin isle. 
Apres avoir traverse plusieurs isles peu considerables, nous en trou- 
Viimes le quatrieme jour une fameuse nommee I'Isle de Manitoualin. — 
Voi/ages du Baron de Lahontan, tom. i. let. 15. Manataulin signifies a 
Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the 
Indians. 

Note 83, page 404. 

Of nvj Wakon Bird, and pj. 

"The Wakon Bird, which probably is of the same species with the bird 

of Paradise, receives its name from the ideas the Indians have of its su- 



AMERICAN POEMS. 

perior excellence; the Wakon Bird being, in their language, the Bird of 
the Great Spirit." — Morse. 

Note 84, page 404. 

Which the wafer lily weaves. 

The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a considerable distance by 
the large pond lily, whose leaves spread thickly over the surface of the 
lake, and form a kind of bed fur the water snakes 



Note 85, page 405. 

Where the gold thread loves to creep. 

"The gold thread is of the vine kind, and grows in swamps. The roots 
spread themselves just under the surface of the morasses, and are easily 
drawn out by handfuls. They resemble a large entangled skein of silk, 
and are of a bright yellow." — Morse. 



Note 86, page 405. 

O'er the sleeping flybird's head. 

" L'oiseau mouche, gros comme un hanneton, est de toutes couleurs, vives 
et changeantes : il tire sa subsistence des fleurs commes les abeilles ; sou 
nid est fait d'un cotton tres-fin suspendu a una branche d' arbre." — Voy- 
ages sur Indes Occidentales, par M. Bossu, seconde part, let. xx. 



Note 87, page 406. 
With the snow bird soft and fair. 
Emberiza hyemalis. — See Imlay's Kentucky, p. 280. 



Note 88, page 407. 

Virgins, who have wander'd young. 

Lafitau supposes that there was an order of vestals established among 
the Iroquois Indians. — Moeurs des Sauvages Amiricains, &c. torn. i. p. 173. 



Note 89, page 407. 

Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood. 

Vedi che sdegna gli argomenti umani; 
Si che remo non vuol, ne altro velo, 
Che I'ale sue tra liti si lontani. 

Vedi come I'ha dritte verso '1 cielo 
Trattando I'aeie con I'eterne penne: 
Che non si mutan, come mortal pelo. 

Dante, Purgator. cant. ii. 



Note 90, page 411. 

WRITTEN ON PASSING DEADMAN'S ISLAND. 

This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the 
Iiroperty of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a super- 
stition very common among sailors, who call this ghost ship, I think, "the 
flying Dutchman." 

We were thirteen days on our passage from Quebec to Halifax, and I 
had been so spoiled by the truly splendid hospitality of my friends of the 
Phaeton and Boston, that I was but ill prepared for the miseries of a 
Canadian vessel. The weather, however, was pleasant, and the scenery 
along the river delightful. Our passage through the Gut of Canso, with 
a bright sky and a fair wind, was particularly striking and romantic. 



AMERICAN POEMS. 
Note 91, page 413. 

TO THE BOSTON FEIGATE. 

Commanded by Captain J. E. Douglas, with whom I returned to Eng- 
land, and to whom I am indebted for many, many kindnesses. In truth, 
I should but offend the delicacy of my friend Douglas, and, at the same 
time, do injustice to my OT^n feelings of gratitude, did I attempt to say 
how much I owe to him. 



Note 92, page 414. 

And (hat chill NovA Scotia's unpromiging strand. 

Sir John Wentworth, the Governor of Nova Scotia, very kindly allowed 
me to accompany him on his visit to the College which they have lately 
established at Windsor, about forty miles from Halifax, and I was indeed 
most pleasantly surprised by the beauty and fertility of the country which 
opened upon us after the bleak and rocky wilderness by which Halifax is 
surrounded. — I was told that, in travelling onwards, we should find the 
soil and the scenery improve, and it gave me much pleasure to know that 
the worthy Governor has by no means such an "inamabile regnum" as I 
was, at first sight, inclined to believe. 



A CRITICAL REVIEW OF 

LTEIC POETS, 

BY 

DR. R. SHELTON MACKENZIE, 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 



LYRIC POETS 



" I knew a very wise man who believed that, if a man were permitted to 
malie all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation." 
Andrew Fletcher of Saltcmn. 

So, nearly two centuries ago, wrote a sagacious Scottish 
Statesman. The songs of Kobert Burns, his countryman, 
which justify the remark, exercise an influence wherever 
the English language is spoken, greater than even the law, 
in its majesty, has ever possessed or exercised. Almost 
contemporaneous have been three other song- writers : Be- 
ranger, in France, whose patriotism was seasoned with wit ; 
Charles Dibdin, whose sea-songs very successfully aroused 
the mariners of England, during the stirring war events 
towards the close of the last century ; and Thomas Moore, 
a native of Ireland, whom Shelley calls 

" The sweetest lyrist of lier saddest wrong." 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 



As yet, America can scarcely be said to 
of national value. "Home, sweet Home," by John 
Howard Payne, does not express any patriotic feeling, and 
even its music was made by an English composer. " The 
Star-Spangled Banner,'' a stirring lyric of the highest 
merit, is set to an old English tune. In France, the 
chansons of Beranger went out of fashion years ago, and 
are not committed to memory by the rising generation. 
In England, Dibdin's sea-songs are equally out of date. 
Burns and Moore alone are lyrists, who being dead yet 
speak, and are not likely to pass into oblivion. Though 
these, poets wrote more particularly for their own country- 
men, their songs are universally popular, have survived 
their more ambitious works, and have grown, as it 
were, into the literature of the world. Burns may now 
be more popular than Moore : but who will contend that 
he was a better song-writer ? Tlie fact is, Burns' songs 
were for his own people, while Moore, though he also 
wrote for his own country, gained his popularity out of 
it, for the most part. 

The ballad-poetry of England and Scotland has been 
the growth of centuries. Dryden has said that " man- 
kind, even the most barbarous, have the seeds of poetry 
implanted in them." Music, also, had an early origin. 
Song and melody are the most antique forms of poetry. 



OF LYRIC POETS. 

The bards, the minstrels, were the fathers of romance, 
preserved in memory long before printing was invented. 
There are English ballads composed as early as the thir- 
teenth century — the subjects being rural life, courting, 
battle, feasting, and tbe chase. During the reign of Queen 
Elizabeth, which was graced by the writings of Shakspere, 
poetry set to music was very popular. Besides " The 
Swan of Avon," other bards were at work — Marlowe, 
Wither, Jonson, Ilerrick, and Lovelace. From the death 
of Oliver Cromwell down to the present time, crowds of 
lyrists have appeared. Contemporary with Moore himself 
were Scott, Barry Cornwall, and Lovei*. A few of Bul- 
wer's and Tennyson's songs have been " wedded to im- 
mortal music," but it may be fairly claimed that Moore's 
Melodies have obtained higher and more permanent popu- 
larity than any other songs during the present century. 
They have been characterized as " all but unequalled for 
elegance of expression and subtlety of thought, flowing 
along in the same time in exactest harmony." There is 
scarcely one bad rhyme in all the Melodies, and they 
exhibit cense as well as sound. 

For tlie most part, the Scottish are more natural than 
any other songs. In English love-songs, the 'vv'riters aj)- 
pear more anxious to express their passion well than 
warmly, while the Scottish poets evidently are bent upon 



A CEITICAL REVIEW 

letting the charmers know how deeply, how tenderly, 
how engrossingly they love them. An English song gen- 
erally contains a single conceit or sentiment, but the 
Scottish gives a little story in addition. One is an 
attempt to make a charming poem : the other, to pour 
the soul out into musical utterance. In the English song 
we find sentiment and description : in the Scottish, senti- 
ment and story. 

Thanks to the labor and. perseverance of Bishop Percy 
and Sir Walter Scott, many fine old ballads and songs 
have been rescued from oblivion. Percy hunted out old 
manuscripts, while Scott would travel many a weary mile 
to take down old ballads from the lips of* peasants who 
had committed them to memory in their childhood. 
Many of these record incidents of national history; others, 
of later date, were the production of even royal authors. 
Allan Ramsay, himself a poet, was a reviver and 
restorer of Scottish songs, in the last century. The 
Jacobite lyrics of that time are sung to this hour. Ro- 
bert Bums, himself the very Lord of Song, whether in 
pathetic, jovial, or affectionate mood, may be said to 
have breathed life and youth, grace and beauty, into the 
fi-agments of old verse which be undertook to restore. 
Tannahill and Fei'guson, Walter Scott and Allan Cun- 
ningliam. Lady Anne Lindsay with her " Auld Robin 



OF LYRIC POETS. 

Gray," and Lady Nairne with her " Land o' the Leal," 
James Hogg and Thomas Campbell, William ' Motherwell 
and Joanna Baillie, have contribnted largely to Scottish 
minstrelsy, and, even in the present unpoetical days of 
hard work and low wages, there are more songs written 
in Scotland in one year, than in the rest of tiie Englisli- 
speaking world in Jive. These prodnctions, too, are racy 
of the soil — stamped with nationality of feeling and lan- 
guage. 

Thomas Moore, thanks to an admirable mother, at once 
affectionate and ambitious, received not only a sound class- 
ical education, but obtained a competent knowledge of 
French and Italian. It was by his mother's liberality, 
and good sense, too, that, desjyite his comparatively hum- 
ble station, he was enabled to enter the University of 
Dublin. "When he was very popidar, in London, in liis 
early manhood, on account of his poetry, he dined witli 
the Prince of Wales, afterwards George IV., as an lion- 
ored guest. In the course of conversation, the Prince 
asked, " I suppose, Mr. Moore, that you are a kinsman 
of the Marquis of Drogheda ? He is head of the Moore 
family, I think." Tlie ])oet, too proud to claim kindred 
with the mere nobility of rank, instantly replied : " Your 
Royal Highness is mistaken. My family is very humble ; 
my father, whose ordinary title is ' Honest Jack Moore,' 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 

keeps a grocer's shop at the corner of Aungier Street, 
Dublin." The Prince answered, " Tou have every 
reason to be proud of such a title in jour family. Gen- 
tlemen," addressing the guests, " I propose that vpe drink 
the health of ' Honest Jack Moore,' who has such a gifted 
son." 

In music — an accomplishment rarely acquired by gen- 
tlemen in the last century — Thomas Moore was at home. 
In the fragment of his autobiography which remains, he 
says of Music, that it was " the only art for which, in 
my own opinion, I was born with a real natural love ; 
my poetry, such as it is, having sprung out of my deep 
love for music." Under an instructor, almost as young 
as himself, he acquired little more than " the power of 
playing two or tliree tunes, on an old lumbering harpsi- 
chord, with the right hand only." But it was discovered 
that he had an agreeable voice and taste for singing, 
and his talent was often called into practice. In private 
theatricals, too, he sang with great spirit. He was fif- 
teen years old when, fascinated by Haydn's music, having 
many musical associates, he suddenly began to teach him- 
self. His instrumental performance did not then extend 
beyond playing an accompaniment to a song, but he 
subsequently acquired a knowledge of the scientific ele- 
ments of the art, — so thorough, indeed, that when he 



OF LYRIC POETS. 

fii-st met Sir Henry Bishop, who succeeded Sir John 
Stevenson in arranging the music for the Melodies, 
among the airs he produced to him, was one his (Moore's) 
own, which he had called a Swedish air. He wrote in 
his Diary : " It was the last I brought forward, and he 
had scarcely played two bars of it when he exclaimed, 
' Delicious ! ' and when he had finished it said, ' This is 
the sweetest air you have selected yet.' " Considering 
that Bishop (who composed the air of " Home, Sweet 
Home,'") was then the most eminent composer of the Eng- 
lish school, Moore must have been very clever, thus pleas- 
antly to deceive him. Moore declared that he had never 
received any regular lessons in playing, yet standing often 
to listen when bis sister was being taught, " and endea- 
voring constantly to pick out tunes — or make them — 
when I was alone, I became a pianoforte-player (at least 
sufBciently so to accompany my own singing) before 
almost any one was in the least aware of it." In short, 
the theory and practice of music came unconsciously to 
liim, preparing him for the great work on which his 
fame will chiefly rest, — for it is as the greatest song-writer 
of his time, and not as the author of " Lalla Eookh," or 
the gay satirist of society, or the biographer of Sheridan 
and Byron, that Thomas Moore Mill live in literature. 
At the age of sixteen, Moore wrote a dramatic masque. 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 

in which were several songs, wliich his sister's teacher 
set to music, and whicii the poet sang with applause. 
Many, of his College mates were, musical. With 
one of them, Edward Hudson, afterwards an exile on 
account of politics, he spent many hours — " now trying 
over the sweet melodies of our country, now talking with 
indignant feeling of her sufferings and wrongs." About 
this time, Mr. Edward Bunting published the first volume 
of the Ancient Music of Ireland, which may be said to 
have first made Mpore acquainted with the beauties of 
the native music. It was not until ten years later, how- 
ever, that he made use of the treasures thus revealed, 
and produced the first number of the Irisli Melodies. 

After tlie publication of his Anacreon, in 1800 ; of 
Little's I'oems, in 1801 ; and of the American Epistles 
and Odes, in 1800, Mr. Moore made an arrangement 
with James and William Power, music-sellers in Dublin, 
to supply words to which Sir John Stevenson, then the 
great musical composer of that city, was to adapt Irish 
airs. He had previously supplied music to several of 
Moore's songs, which Messrs. Power had published, and 
which the author — who, under the wing of Lord Moira, 
the Lord Kawdon of our War of Independence, had 
been introduced into the first society in London — had 
literally warbled into popularity. The first number, like 



OP LYRIC POETS. 

each of its successors, contained twelve Melodies, with a 
Preface from the Publisher, and giving part of a letter 
from Moore to Stevenson, stating, " Our National Music 
has never been collected ; and while the composers ot 
the Continent have enriched their Operas and Sonatas 
borrowed from Ireland— very often without the honesty 
of aclinowledgment — we have left these treasures in a 
great degree unclaimed and fugitive. Thus our Airs, 
like too many of our countrymen, for want of protection 
at home, have passed into the service of foreigners." 
The trutli of this was illustrated six years after Moore's 
death, when Frederic de Flotow, the German composer, 
took the air known as " The Last Rose of Summer," 
and made it the principal gem in his opera of " Martha." 
The second number of the Irish Melodies ap]3eared 
towards the close of 1807. A long Preface, prepared by 
Moore, and actually printed, was suppressed — Mr. Power 
being alarmed at the freedom of the Poet's political 
comments upon liis country's wrongs and sorrows. It is 
said that these opening numbers were sold to Mr. Power 
for fifty pounds ($250) ; and, indeed, there is a sentence 
in a letter from Moore to his mother, dated August, 
1808,—" I quite threw away the Melodies : they will 
make the little smooth fellow's fortune,"— whii'h goes far 
to confirm this statement. The third number appeared 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 

in 1810, ia which year Moore made England his 
place of residence ; the fourth in 1811 ; the fifth in 
1813 ; and the sixth in 1815. This was announced as 
the last of the series ; but the Poet, when bidding 
adieu to the Irish Harp forever, confessed that it might 
be, perhaps, " only one of those eternal farewells which a 
lov^er takes of his mistress occasionally." Accordingly, 
though the last of these Melodies was a farewell to the 
dear Harp of his Country (p. 91), declaring — 

" If the pulse of tlie patriot, soldier, or lover, 

Have Ihrobb'd at oiir la)-, 'tis thy glory alone ; 
I was bat as the wind passing heedlessly over. 

And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own," — 

no one was surprised when, in 1818, the seventh num- 
ber appeared, as the first of a new series, opening, as 
the last had closed, with an address to his Harp. The 
eighth number, written in Paris, was published in 1821 ; 
tl'.e ninth, in 1824 ; and tlie tenth, closing the work, 
was delayed until the summer of 1834. It contained 
four Supplementary Airs, and a Dedication of the entire 
work to the Marchioness of Head fort, daughter of his 
friend Sir John Stevenson, of Dublin, who had arranged 
the music for the Melodies from 1807 to 1819 — that task 
being confided to Sir Henry Bishop from the latter date 
to 1834. Moore was the author, also, of numerous 



OP LYRIC POETS. 

Sacred Songs, National Airs, and separate Lyrics, most 
of which obtained great popularity. 

The adage, " Easj' writing is often very hard reading," 
means that rapid execution, usually careless, is less effect- 
ive than that on which requisite labor lias been be- 
stowed — though the skillful artist will not leave the 
mark of his chisel on the marble. During his long 
connexion with Mr. James Power, extending over thirty 
years, Moore wrote over twelve hundred letters to liim. 
Of these, only tifty-seveii were used in Lord John Russell's 
biograpliy of the Poet. Over one thousand M'ere sold 
by public auction in London, in 1853, for the benefit of 
Mr. Power's family, and thus irretrievably scattered 
through the world. But there is an excellent catalogue, 
containing copious extracts from the more important of 
these letters, and reference to this manifests what 
labor, thought, and severe criticism Moore bestowed 
on the composition and revision of the Melodies. lie 
was not what is called a rapid writer, thougli his works 
occupy many volumes ; but he was very industrious, and, 
except when he lived in Paris (1819-1822), seems rarely 
to have wasted his time. Even in his annual visits to 
London, though he wrote little, and chiefly fluttered about 
in fashionable society, he was advancing his own interests, 
for, being greatly admired as a vocalist, he availed him- 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 

self of the opportunitj to sing his new forthcoming songs, 
in favor of .which lie thus created a furore in advance of 
their publication. It was a mode of advertising them, 
which gave him pleasure as well as prolit. His cor- 
respondence with Power shows his anxious desire to make 
his Melodies as perfect as possible. Sometimes he would 
order particular songs to be kept back until tlie very 
last minute, because, being " very anxious " about them, 
he was hesitating in his clioice even of single words. 
He wrote in 1815, when, at the age of thirty-six, he was 
in full vigor of mind and body, " I am never done 
touching and retouching wliile the things lie by me ; " but 
even after they had passed into tiie printer's hands, he 
would send letter after letter to bis publisher, suggesting 
the substitution of one word for another, or an alteration 
in the rhyme, or, sometimes, even the canceling of an 
entire stanza, and the insertion of a new one moi-e per- 
fectly expressing his meaning. The result was, that 
scarcely an indifferent rhyme occurs in his poetry, and, 
from his musical ear, the rhythm is almost as unexcep- 
tionable. 

The success of Moore's Songs may be said to have 
created a squadron of imitators— good, bad, and indifferent 
—few of whom are now remembered. Samuel Lover, 
whose " Angel's Whisper " and " Eory O'More " are fair 



OF LYRIC POETS. 

specimens of his sentiment and liumor, did not appear 
among the song- writers until Moore was writing his latest 
verses. There was another Ijrist, popular to a consider- 
able degree some forty years ago, when Moore was in the 
fullness of his fame, who wrote verses with great facility 
(and carelessness), and was even able to compose music 
for them, occasionally. Mr. Haynes Bayly, who began as 
a man of fortune and fashion, writing songs for his 
amusement, was finally compelled to produce them for a 
livelihood. One or two, such as a touching ballad — lie- 
ginning, " Oh, no, we never mention her," — were truthful 
and pathetic ; but his attempt to compete with Moore's 
Melodies, by a series of versicles, entitled " Loves of the 
Butterflies," was not permanently successful. For a few 
seasons, however, sensitive lady-vocalists warned their au- 
ditors that " The Butterfly was a gentleman of no very 
good repute ; "' and plethoric amateurs of the other sex 
might be heard asthmatically to warble 

" I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower, 

Wliere roses, and lilies, and violets meet , 
I would not languish for wealth or for power, 

I would not sigh to see slaves at my feet. 
I'd bo a butterfly, born in a bower, 

And sucking nU buds that are pretty and sweet." 

Moore's Melodies, whose popularity is as great in 
America, since their author's death, as it was in Europe 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 

wliile he lived, liave been translated into various lan- 
guages — into Latin, Italian, French, Kussian, Polish, and 
German ; and were admirably rendered into the Irish 
language by Archbishop McIIale. 

Posterity may be said already to have j^^ssed its sen- 
tence upon Moore's Melodies. They manifest a very deep 
love of country, and an indignant spirit of indignation at 
the misgovernment which so long oppressed her. Senti- 
ment, love, and geniality also pervade them. Like the 
rest of his writings, they abound in similes ; and it has 
been said they constitute a treasury of gems and a con- 
servatory of flowers. Still, their expression is not mere- 
tricious, and their musical harmony has never been 
equaled, or even approaclied. Their poetic excellence was 
not fully appreciated until the words were published 
separate from the music — to be read rather than sung. 
Then it was discovered by the world, what honest critics 
had already declared, that they were full of intelligence 
as well as of melody. Lord Byron, after reading one or 
two of the numbers of the Irish Melodies, then recently 
published, selected four of the songs, which, he said, " are 
worth all the ejiics that ever were composed." Ilazlitt, 
a severe critic, who declared that Mooi'e ought not to have 
written Lalla Pookh, even for three thousand guineas, said, 
" His muse is like Ariel — as light, as tricksy, as inde- 



OF LYRIC POETS. 

fatigable, and as Immane a spirit. His fixncy is ever on 
the wing ; it flutters in the gale, glitters in the sun. 
Everything lives, moves, and sparkles in his poetry ; and, 
over all. Love waves his purple wings. His thoughts are as 
man}-, as restless, and as bright us the insects that people 
the sun's heam." Lord Jolin Russell's opinion was, that 
fancy and feeling were " tiie two qualities in which Moore 
was most rich Never has the English lan- 
guage, except in some few songs of the old poets, been 
made to render such melody ; never have the most re- 
fined emotions of love, and the most ingenious creations 
of fancy, been expressed in a language so simple, so easy, 
so natural." Alison, the historian, pronounced that the 
Melodies ''have the delicacy of refined life without its 
fastidiousness — the warmth of natural feeling without its 
rudeness." Professor Wilson, far more enthusiastic, de- 
dared, " Of all the song-writers that ever warhled, or 
chanted, or sung, the best, in our estimation, is verily 
none other tiian Thomas Moore Burns some- 
times wrote like a mere booi- — Mooi'e has, too, written like 
a mere man of fashion. But take them both at their 
best, and hoth are inimitable. Botli are national poets — 
and who shall say that if Moore had been born and 
bred a peasant, as Burns was, and if Ireland had been 
such a land of knowledge, and virtue, aud religion, as 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 



Scotland is — and surely, without offence, we may say that 
it never was and never will be — though we love the 
Green Island well — that with his fancy, warm heart, and 
exquisite sensibilities, he might not have been as natural 
a lyrist as Burns ; while, take him as he is, who can 
deny that in richness, in variety, in grace, and in the 
power of art, he is superior to the ploughman." 

Mention having here been made of the very effective 
manner in which Moore sang his own lyrics, it may be 
in jjlace to give, in this desultory essay, some description 
of it. "We find Mr. Edmund D. Griffin, a young 
American clergyman, who visited England over forty years 
ago, mentioning that he had met Thomas Moore, Lockhart, 
Washington Irving, and other eminent men of letters, at 
a dinner given by Murray, the London publisher. The 
poet, then in his fiftieth year, was to be remarked for 
" the height of the bald crown, the loftiness of the re- 
ceding pyramidical forehead, the marked yet expanded 
and graceful lines of the mouth ; above all, when you 
catch the bright smile and the bi-illiant eye-beam, which 
accompanies the flashes of his wit and the sallies of his 
fancy, you forget, and are ready to disavow, your former 
impressions " — not favorable, on first sight of his unpoetical 
figure and small stature. After tlie party had adjourned 
to the drawing-room, " Mr. Moore," he tells us, " was in- 



OF LYRIC POETS. 



duced to seat himself at the piano, and indulged his 
friends with two or three of his ovm Irish melodies. I 
cannot describe to you his singing : it is perfectly unique. 
The combination of music and of poetic sentiment, ema- 
nating from one mind, and glowing in the very counte- 
nance, and speaking in the very voice which that same 
mind illuminates and directs, produces an effect upon the 
eye, the ear, the taste, the feeling, the whole man in 
short, such as no mere professional excellence can at all 
aspire to equal. His head is cast backward, and his 
eyes upward, with the true inspiration of an ancient bard. 
His voice, though of little compass, is inexpressibly sweet. 
He realized to me, in many respects, my conceptions of 
the poet of love and wine ; the reiined and elegant, 
though voluptuous Anacreon." 

Mr. Willis, who met him six years later (in the autumn 
of 183i), thus set down, in his Pencilings by the Way, 
his impressions of Moore. " To see him only at table," 
Willis says, " you would think him not a small man. 
His principal length is in his body, and his head and 
shoulders are those of a much larger person. Conse- 
quently, he sits tall, and, with the peculiar erectness of 

head and neck, his diminutiveness disappears 

I have no time to describe his singing. It is well 
known, however, that its effect is only equaled by the 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 

beauty of Lis own words He makes no 

attempt at music. It is a kind of admirable recitative, 
in which every shade of thought is syllabled and dwelt 
upon, and the sentiment of the song goes through your 
blood, warming you to the very eyelids, and starting your 
tears, if you have soul or sense in you. I have heard of 
women fainting at a song of Moore's ; and if the bur- 
den of it answered, by chance, to a secret in the bosom 
of the listener, I should think, from its comparative effect 
upon so old a stager as myself, that the heart would break 

with it. We all sat round tlie piano He 

rambled over the keys awhile, and sang ' When first I 
met thee,' [page 143 in this volume], with a pathos that 
beggars description. When the last word had faltered 
out, he rose and took Lady Blessington's hand — said good- 
night, and was gone before a word was uttered. For a 
full minute after he had closed the door, no one spoke. 
I could have wished, for myself, to drop silently asleep 
where I sat, with the tears in my eyes and the softness 
in my heart." 

These descriptions may appear exaggerated, but, having 
heard Moore sing — always with the little trick of silently 
gliding away the moment he had produced his greatest 
effect — I can answer for their truth. Poets of the highest 
order do not usually do justice, in singing, or even in 



OP LYRIC POETS. 

reading, to their own lyrics. Burns sang very well, 
but, rarely attempting ballads of sentiment or love, con- 
lined himself to his more jovial eliusions. Lover, like 
Moore, rather spoke than sung his own songs, and some 
times touched his listeners' hearts. 

The remuneration which Moore received for his Melo- 
dies was very considerable. Compared with the payments 
to Burns, it might be called enormous. There are some 
two hundred and fifty lyrics, written or amended by Burns, 
for which he received only five pounds ($25) at the 
beginning of his task, and as much more sent to him, 
when he was on his death-bed, when, if needed, it was 
not used. Moore received five hundred pounds a year 
for nearly thirty years, during which he wrote the Melodies, 
— the hundred and twenty-four contained in this volume. 
This annuity makes a total of fifteen thousand pounds 
Sterling ($75,000) — which shows a payment of nearly $605 
for each song 1 Scott, Byron, Bulwer, Macaulay, and 
Dickens had magnificent remuneration for their writings, 
but nothing approaches the rate of payment given to 
Moore for his Melodies. For " Lalla Eookh," a collection 
of poems, set, as it were, in th • framework of a prose 
narrative — like Orient pearls strung upon a thread of gold 
— Moore also received a very large sum. The friend who 
negotiated the sale of that work, one line of which the 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 

intending publishers and purchasers had never read, at 
the time, simply declared " that Moore ought to receive 
for his poem the largest price that has ever been given, 
in our day, for such a work." That was three thousand 
guineas ($16,500), and this was the sum paid to the 
negotiator, on Moore's part, ( Mr. Perry, then editor of a 
leading Liberal newspaper in London.) to whom the grateful 
poet addressed some verses, not to be found in any 
collection of his writings ; but he personally acknowledged 
to me that though he had forgotten and lost, he certainly 
had written them. . I have pleasure in reproducing them 
here. They are as follow : — 



whose interference I chiefly owe the very liberal price given fo) 
" Lalla Rookh." 

" When they sliall tell, in future times, 
Of thousands given for idle rhymes, 

Like these — the pastime of an liour, 
They'll wonder at the lavish taste 
That could, like tulip-fanciers, waste 

A little fortune on a flower I 

' Yet wilt not tliou, whose friendship set 
Such value on the bard's renown, — • 
Yet, wilt thou not, my friend, regret 
The golden shower thy spell brought down ; 



OF LYRIC POETS. 

' For thou dost lore the free-born Muse 
Whose flight no curbing chain pursues; 

And thou dost think the song, that shrines 
That image, — so ador'd by thee, 
And spirits like thee, — Liberty, 
Of price beyond all India's mines I " 



It only remains to add a few particulars coiicerninf 
the present edition of Moore's Melodies, wliich also con 
tains his Poems, written in America, at the commencemen 
of his life of authorship. The illustrations of tlie Mel 
odies were designed by Moore's countryman and friend 
the late Mr. Daniel Maclise, who died suddenly in Lon 
don, in April, 1S70, and for thirty -five years had been a 
distinguished member of the British Academy of Fine 
Arts, — one of the most poetical-historical painters of the 
age, and unsurpassed as a brilliant colorist. Like Moore, 
he was the son of parents who belonged, in Ireland, not 
to the aristocracy of rank or wealth, but to that ot 
industry and honesty. Like him, too, he ventured upon 
the troubled and dangerous ocean of London life, at a 
very early age. Still continuing the parallel, Maclise 
speedily obtained an early recognition of his genius. 
Every honor, in the way of his profession, that Maclise 
contended for he obtained, with apparent ease, over 



A CRITICAL REVIEW 

numerous and gifted competitors. In 1833, when he was 
only twenty two years old, among other fine paintings of 
his in the Eoyal Academy Exhibition, was a master- 
piece entitled " Mokanna," illustrating the efiective story, 
" The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan," in Moore's " Lalla 
Rookh." The wonderful productiveness and rich imagina- 
tion of this great painter were assisted by remarkable 
skill and clear judgment. When it was determined that 
the new Houses of Parliament, in London, should be 
enriched by the sister Muses of Painting and Sculpture, 
a commission was given to Mr. Maclise to execute, in 
fresco, several of the illustrations of British history, 
representing war-scenes on sea and land, and his " Death 
of Nelson" and " Meeting of Blucher and Wellington after 
the Battle of Waterloo," are among the most illustrious 
triumphs of Art in that national gallery. In 1866, he 
refused the presidency of the Koyal Academy, the highest 
honor that, as a Painter, he could receive. He devoted 
years of study and labor to the production of his 
pictorial edition of Moore's Melodies, and Moore 
gratefully spoke of his good fortune in ha\'ing " the 
rich imaginative powers of Mr. Maclise employed 
in its adornment." It is not too much to say that 
never before was Poetry waited upon by such a lovely 
hand-maiden as Art. Beauty and grace pervade every 



OF LYRIC POETS. 

page, and bring out, as it were, the deeper and more 
subtle meaning of the bard. 

Mr. William Riches, one of our own artists, has com- 
pleted this volume, by illustrating, for the first time 
in any country, Moore's American Poems, and his 
designs, characteristic and national, will bear, though 
tliey do not challenge, comparison with those which 
Maclise produced for the Melodies. They chiefly 
illustrate the scenery and natural objects which Moore 
admired on this side of the Atlantic, and are a graceful 
and appropriate tribute to his genius. 




Philadelphia, March 21, 1871. 



CONTENTS. 




Publishers' Dedication 


Life of Thomas Moore, with Portrait, Views of 
ExGusH Residence 


Birthplace and 

7 


Preface to Melodies 


21 


Illustrated Title to Melodies 








Moore's Melodies, with Illdsteations 


29 


Letters on Mnsio, Pkefatoet Notices, Etc 

Dedication of Melodies to the Marchioness op He 
Preface— Moore's Visit to America 


I toXXVIII 

IDFORT SXX 


Dedication op American Poems to Francis, Earl op 


MOIRA 296 






Frontispiece to American Poems 


303 


American Poems, with Illustrations 


305 


Notes to American Poems 


442 


A Critical Review of Lyric Poets 


471 


Index to American Poems 


501 to 504 


1 



INDEX TO THE MELODIES. 



PAGE 

Alone in crowds to wander on 239 

And doth not a meeting like this make amends 207 

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow 46 

As slow our ship her foamy track 165 

As vanquish'd Erin wept beside 218 

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly Ill 

Avenging and bright fell the swift sword of Erin 106 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms 64 

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore 99 

By the Feal's wave benighted 213 

By the hope within us springing 82 

Come o'er the sea 141 

Uome, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer 161 

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief. 68 

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee 91 

Down in the valley come meet me to-night 190 

Drink of this cup; — you'll find there's a spell in 187 

Drink to her who long 75 

Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes 33 

Fairest! put on awhile 205 

Farewell! — but whenever you welcome the hour 131 



IRISH MELODIES. 

Fill the bumper fair 150 

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour 39 

Forget not the field where they perish'd 162 

From this hour the pledge is given 224 

Go where Glory waits thee 29 

lias sorrow thy young days shaded 139 

Here we dwell, in holiest bowers 104 

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies 50 

How oft has the Benshee cried 49 

How sweet the answer Echo makes 193 

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me 135 

If thou 'It be mine, the treasures of air 181 

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown 167 

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone 216 

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining 227 

I saw thy form in youthful prime 103 

I wish I was by that dim Lake 197 

It is not the tear at this moment shed 102 

I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here 215 

Lay his sword by his side — it hath serv'd him too well 245 

Lesbia hath a beaming eye 96 

Let Erin remember the days of old 66 

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane 71 

My gentle Harp, once more I waken 163 

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns 109 

Ne'er ask the hour — what is it to us 179 

Night clos'd around the conqueror's way 84 

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers 153 



INDEX. 

PAGE 

Of all the fair months, that round the sun 231 

Oh! Arranmore, lov'd Arranmore 240 

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers 192 

Oh! blame not the bard, if he flies to the bowers 73 

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade 34 

Oh! could we do with this world of ours 242 

Oh! doubt rue not — the season 133 

Oh for the swords of former time 183 

Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own 85 

Oh! haste and leave this sacred isle 57 

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright 92 

Oh, the sight entrancing 201 

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light 42 

Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead! whom we know by the light you give... 189 

Oh! weep for the hour 62 

Oh! Where's the slave so lowly 146 

One bumper at parting! — tho' many 137 

Quick! we have but a second 196 

Remember the Glories of Brien the Brave 36 

Remember thee; yes, while there's life in this heart 32 

Rich and rare were the gems she wore 47 

S;ul on, sail on, thou fearless bark 184 

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave 210 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps.. 108 

She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre 221 

Silence is in our festal halls 243 

Silent, oh Moylel be the roar of thy water 67 

Sing — sing — Music was given 235 

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me 219 

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high 222 



IRISH MELODIES. 


PAGE 

. 69 
. 199 

. 55 
. 194 
. 228 
. 41 
. 127 . 
. 147 
. 119 
. 225 
. 112 
. 23G 
. 44 
. 238 
. 156 
. 176 
. 114 
. 94 
. 35 
. 154 
. 116 
. 86 
. 88 
. 159 
. 129 
. 123 
. 171 
. 229 
. 203 

. 59 

. 89 


Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well 


Take back the virgin page 


The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking 

The dream of those days when first I sun" thee is o'er 


The harp that once through Tara's halls 


The time I've lost in wooing 


The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall 

The young May moon is beaming, love 


There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 

They came from a land beyond the sea ... 


They know not my heart, who believe there can be 

- They may rail at this life— from the hour I began it 


Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them 


Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see 


Through Erin's isle 


Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way.. 

'Tis believ'd that this Harp, which I wake now for thee 

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking 




To Ladies' eyes around, boy 


'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought 

We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast 

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past 



What life like that of the bard can be 233 

What the bee is to the floweret 107 

When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved 169 

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow SO 

When first I met thee, warm and young 143 

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name 51 

When in death I shall calmly recline 52 

When thro' life uublest we rove 125 

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes 182 

While gazing on the moon's light 78 

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping 157 

Wreath the bowl 173 

Yes, sad one of Sion, if closely resembling 185 

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride 121 



AMERICAN POEMS. 




INDEX TO AMERICAN POEMS. 




At Night— "At night, when all is still around" 


PAGE 

. 314 


A Dream of Antiquity— "I just had turn'd" 


. 350 


A Canadian Boat Song — "Faintly as tolls the evening chime"... 


. 398 


A Study from the Antique — "Behold, my love, the curious gem". 


. 362 


Ballad Stanzas— "I knew by the smoke" 


. 397 




. 845 
. 856 


"If I were yonder wave, my dear" 


"I stole along the flowery bank" 


359 




. 340 
. 886 

340 


Lines written at the Cohoes — " From rise of morn ". 


"Nay, tempt me not to love again" 


On leaving Philadelphia— "Alone by the Schuylkill" 


383 


Stanzas— "A beam of tranquillity smiled" 


810 


Song of the Evil Spirit of the Woods— "Now the vapor" 


. 388 


To Lord Viscount Strangford — "Sweet Moon" 


. 805 
. 312 
. 315 
. 317 
. 319 


To the Flying Fish— "When I have seen" 


The Life Boat — " 'T is sweet to behold " . 




To Miss Moore — "In days, my Kate, when life" 



The Lake of the Dismal Swamp— "They made her a grave" 326 

To the Marchioness Dowager of Donegal 330 

To George Morgan, Esq.— "Oh, what a sea of storm" 335 

The Snow Spirit — "No, ne'er did the wave" 857 

'There's not a look, a word of thine " 364 

To Joseph Atkinson, Esq. — "The daylight is gone" 365 

The Steersman's Song — "When freshly blows" 368 

To the Firefly— "At morning, when the earth" 369 

To Lord Viscount Forbes — "If former times had never" 370 

To Thomas Hume, Esq. M. D.— "'Tis evening" 378 

To the Hon. W. R. Spencer— " Thou oft hast told me" 391 

To the Lady Charlotte Rawdon — "Not many months" 400 

To the Boston Frigate — "With triumph this morning" 413 

'Well— peace to thy heart". 355 

Written on passing Deadman's Island — "See you" 411 

'You read it in those spell-bound eyes" 347 



WHOLE NtlMBEE OF PAGES, 604. 



H23 81 



d!' ''i'- 






■<^ .-. ->.: 









^j-^ 






i* --fS' 



s 






,;!J\??, 



'"t: v./ -k^^^^ 









■' a'^ ... <-. 



.o-.-J,!' 



^i^- 



'T^^- ,0"^ 



'^..^^ 






; ^-^ °^ 'A 



^'^ ^. -:■ 



I' .^^-v. ^.' 



t 






^^r^ ^ '.mf/y. 



'^X,^^ 















-. %,.^'' <:^^ 



"^z <.^" 



